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GERMAN    LYRIC  POETRY. 


A  COLLECTION  OF 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS, 


TRANSLATED  FROM 


THE  BEST  GERMAN  LYRIC  POETS, 


WITH  NOTES,  BY 


CHARLES    T.  BROOKS. 





WILLIS  P.  HAZARD, 

724  CHESTNUT  ST.,  PHILADELPHIA. 
18  63. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1842, 
By  Hi lli ard,  Gray,  and  Co. 
the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED  AT  THE 
BOSTON  TVPE  AND  STEREOTYPE  FOUNDRY. 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE. 


Most  of  the  pieces  in  this  volume  may  be  called 
songs.  It  contains  a  few  odes,  elegies,  and  other 
small  poems ;  but  it  is  chiefly  made  up  of  songs  and 
ballads.  The  Germans  are  remarkably  rich  in  this 
department  —  rich,  not  only  in  the  number,  but  also 
in  the  character  and  literary  finish,  of  their  popular 
songs.  Probably,  except  those  of  Shakspeare  and 
Burns,  no  class  of  songs,  in  any  language,  even  the 
Spanish,  will  be  found  to  equal  Körner's  war  songs. 

Many  of  the  miscellaneous  pieces,  in  the  latter  half 
of  the  volume,  particularly  of  those  which  are  classed 
together  as  "  Songs  of  Life,"  are  taken  from  a  book, 
bearing  the  following  quaint  title:  "The  Mildheim 
Song-Book,  containing  eight  hundred  Songs,  sportive 
and  serious,  about  all  Things  in  the  World,  and  all 
Circumstances  of  Human  Life,  which  can  be  sung 
of;  collected  for  the  Friends  of  innocent  Festivity 


viii 


translator's  preface. 


and  genuine  Virtue,  which  does  not  hang  its  Head  ; 
by  Rudolph  Zacharias  Becker."  This  song-book 
contains  a  very  rich  collection. 

Most  of  the  light  songs,  which  fall  into  the  depart- 
ment of  "  Nature,"  as  well  as  many  of  the  preceding 
class,  were  originally  translated  for,  and  from,  juvenile 
song-books.  Hence  they  are  anonymous  to  the  trans- 
lator. He  has  inserted  them  in  the  hope  of  pleasing 
youthful  readers,  trusting  that  his  book  will  find  some 
readers  of  that  class.  It  is  gratifying  to  see  that 
music  is  fast  finding  its  way  into  our  schools,  as  a 
branch  of  regular  instruction.  The  following  testi- 
mony,  from  Dr.  Martin  Luther,  is  given  at  the  end  of 
the  Mildheim  Song-Book :  "  There  is  no  doubt  that 
many  seeds  of  noble  virtues  are  to  be  found  in  such 
souls  as  are  touched  by  music  ;  but  those  who  have  no 
feeling  for  it,  I  hold  them  to  be  like  stocks  and  stones. 
Whoso  despises  music,  as  all  fanatics  do,  with  him  I 
am  not  pleased.  For  music  is  a  gift  of  God,  not  an 
invention  of  man.  It  drives  away  the  devil,  and 
makes  people  cheerful.  Then  they  forget  all  wrath, 
impurity,  pride,  and  other  vices.  After  theology,  I 
give  music  the  next  place,  and  highest  honor;  and 
we  see  how  David  and  all  saints  have  uttered  their 
devout  thoughts  in  verse,  rhyme,  and  song.    Music  I 


translator's  preface. 


IX 


have  always  held  dear.  He  who  is  cunning  at  this 
art,  is  of  a  good  sort,  apt  for  every  thing.  We  must 
of  necessity  maintain  music  in  the  schools :  a  school- 
master must  be  able  to  sing, — otherwise  I  do  not  look 
at  him." 

It  does  not  become  an  author  to  take  the  pen  out 
of  the  hand  of  the  critic  —  to  forestall  or  to  deprecate 
the  remarks  of  others.  The  translator  of  this  volume 
has,  therefore,  but  a  few  words  to  say  of  its  literary 
execution.  Some  of  the  verses  may  remind  the 
reader  of  what  a  poet  of  our  own  says  about 

"  Our  grating  English,  whose  Teutonic  jar 
Shakes  the  racked  axle  of  Art's  rattling  car," 

without  exemplifying,  however,  what  follows,  namely, 
that  the  said  English 

"Fits  like  mosaic,  in  the  lines  that  gird 
Fast  in  its  place  each  many-angled  word." 

It  is  to  be  hoped,  in  the  present  case,  that  the  car  has 
not,  in  some  instances,  jolted  so  much  as  to  upset. 
The  translator  has,  throughout,  striven  to  be  faithful 
to  the  melody,  —  a  most  important  part  of  a  lyric 
poem's  meaning.  He  fears  that,  in  a  few  cases,  he 
may  have  sacrificed  the  soul's  words  to  an  unimportant 
jingling  of  sounds.    In  the  case  of  the  first  stanza  of 


X 


TRANSLATOR  S  PREFACE. 


Uhland's  "  Lost  Church,"  the  second  stanza  of  his 
"  Pilgrim,"  and  the  last  of  K  timer's  "  Sword  Song," 
the  liberty  has  been  taken  of  making  two  stanzas  out 
of  one,  for  the  sake  of  bringing  in  all  the  meaning 
without  murdering  the  melody.  But  in  almost  every 
instance,  it  is  believed  that  these  translations  will  be 
found  faithful  to  the  word  of  the  original,  so  far  as  the 
difference  of  idiom  between  the  two  languages,  and  the 
comparative  deficiency  of  the  English  in  rhyme,  would 
permit. 

The  translator  offers  this  volume  to  the  public,  fully 
conscious  of  its  deficiencies  as  a  specimen-hook,  even 
of  German  lyric  poetry.  The  wealth  of  this  depart- 
ment of  the  German  literature  has  revealed  itself  to 
him  more  and  more  as  he  has  gone  on ;  and  now  he 
feels  that,  on  the  shore  of  the  great  ocean,  he  has 
picked  up  many  pebbles,  though  some  pearls.  Many 
of  his  fellow-students  of  German  will  undoubtedly 
miss  some  of  their  old  favorites  here ;  he  hopes  this 
book  may  lead  them  to  gain  some  new  ones.  It  will 
also  be  observed,  however,  that  the  volume  contains 
a  number  of  old  and  familiar  pieces,  newly  translated 
—  some  that  have  been  often  before  translated,  and 
admirably,  too,  by  distinguished  writers.  But  the 
retranslations  in  the  present  work  have  been  published 


translator's  preface. 


XI 


simply  with  the  feeling  that  they  bring  their  mite  of 
value  towards  a  complete  representation  of  the  mean- 
ing and  melody  of  the  original  pieces. 

As  to  the  division  of  the  book,  it  was  made  simply  for 
convenience  of  reference,  and  not  with  the  most  distant 
idea  of  including  all  the  principal  German  poets,  or 
the  best  pieces  of  all  whose  names  do  appear.  Had 
such  been  the  intention,  the  volume  would  have  been 
singularly  defective  in  regard  to  Tieck,  Novalis,  Voss, 
Wieland,  Jacobi,  Hauff,  Arndt,  Claudius,  Herder, 
Kleist,  PfefFel,  Stolberg,  Weisse,  and  many  others. 

The  translator  closes,  with  his  warm  thanks  to  the 
friends  who  have  contributed  translations  to  the  vol- 
ume. Their  initials  will  be  found  affixed  to  their 
several  pieces,  and  their  names  in  the  table  of  con- 
tents. May  he  not  express,  without  any  impropriety, 
his  particular  obligations  to  the  friend  and  scholar 
who  has  so  exquisitely  represented  Frederic  Rückert, 
and  restrung,  for  this  collection,  so  many  pearls  ? 

Newport,  R.  I.,  March  15,  1842. 


As  wine  and  oil  are  imported  to  us  from  abroad,  so  must  ripe 
understanding,  and  many  civil  virtues,  be  imported  into  our 
minds  from  foreign  writings;  —  we  shall  else  miscarry  still,  and 
come  short  in  the  attempts  of  any  great  enterprise. 

Milton,  History  uf  Britain,  Book  III. 


CONTENTS. 


UHLAND. 

Page. 

POOR  man's  SONG   3 

THE  CHAPEL   5 

SHEPHERD'S  SUNDAY  SONG   6 

SONG  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN-BOY   7 

RESOLUTION  JOHN  S.  D WIGHT.  9 

BAD  NEIGHBORHOOD   11 

ON  A  POET  WHO  WAS  STARVED  TO  DEATH   12 

THE  PASSAGE   14 

A  POET'S  BLESSING   16 

SUNDOWN   17 

ONE  EVENING   18 

A  LEAF   19 

ON  A  GRAVESTONE  JOHN  S.  DWIGHT.  20 

TO  MY  MOTHER   20 

THE  DYING  HEROES   21 

THE  BLIND  KING   23 

THE  PILGRIM   26 

THE  LANDLADY'S  DAUGHTER.         .     .     .      JOHN  S.  DWIGHT.  28 

SERENADE   29 

THE  POET'S  RETURN   30 

A  DREAM   32 

TOM  THUMB   34 

THE  DEVOTEE   35 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  BIDASSOA   39 

MINSTER  TRADITION  JOHN  S.  DWIGHT.  42 

THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW.  44 

THE  LOST  CHURCH   4!" 


XIV  CONTENTS. 


KÖRNER. 

Page. 

INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  "  LYRE  AND   SWORD."           ....  53 

THE  FIVE  OAKS  BEFORE   DALLWITZ   55 

rauch's  BUST  OF  QUEEN  LOUISA   57 

MY  NATIVE  LAND   58 

SUMMONS   60 

SONG  OF  THE  BLACK  HUNTERS   63 

COVENANT  SONG  BEFORE  BATTLE   64 

PRAYER  DURING   BATTLE   67 

DISCONTENT   69 

FAREWELL  TO  LIFE.   71 

LÜTZOW'S  WILD   CHASE   72 

MEN  AND  BOYS   74 

SWORD   SONG   76 

CRADLE   SONG   80 

THE  VILLAGE   SMITHY   82 

GOOD   NIGHT   84 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THEODORE  KÖRNER.  TIEDGE.  ...  85 

KÖRNER'S  FUNERAL.  C.  FOLLEN   88 

BÜRGER. 

lenora  93 

the  emperor  and  the  abbot  103 

the  wives  of  weinsberg  110 

new  zealander's  battle  song  114 

a  casus  anatomicus.  115 

the  poor  poet  116 

HÖLTY. 

DEATH  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALE  119 

HARVEST  SONG  121 

CALL  TO  JOY  123 

THE  OLD  FARMER'S  ADVICE  TO  HIS  SON  124 

WINTER  SONG  125 

ELEGY  AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  MY  FATHER   126 


CONTENTS. 


XV 


SCHILLER. 

Page. 

ENTRANCE  OF  THE   NEW   CENTURY.  N.  L.  FROTHINGHAM.  131 


133 
135 


RANZ   DES  VACHES  

MARY  STUART'S  SONG  

JOAN   OF  ARC'S  FAREWELL  TO   HER  HOME   137 

JUAN    OF  ARC,  ON  THE  DAY  OF  THE  CORONATION  IN  RHEIMS.  139 

THE  MAIDEN'S  LAMENT  N.  L.  FROTHINGHAM.  143 

PARTING   OF  HECTOR  AND  ANDROMACHE   144 

A   SAYING  OF  CONFUCIUS  N.  L.  FROTHINGHAM.  145 

EPIGRAMS  N.  L.  FROTHINGHAM.  146 

EPIGRAMS     ...  147 

GOETHE. 

ALEXIS  AND  DORA  CP.  CRANCH.  151 

THE  ERL-KING   160 

MIGNON     162 

THE   FISHER   163 

TO  THE   PARTED   ONE  CP.  CRANCH.  165 

TO  THE  CLOUDS  SARAH  H.  WHITMAN.  166 

RÜCKERT. 

STRUNG   PEARLS  N.  L.  FROTHINGHAM.  169 

A   GAZELLE  N.  L.  FROTHINGHAM.  174 

THE   DYING   FLOWER  N.  L.  FROTHINGHAM.  176 

THE   SUN   AND  THE  BROOK  JOHN  S.  DWIGHT.  179 

SONG  JOHN  S.  DWIGHT.  lSl 

KLOPSTOCK. 

THE  TWO  MUSES   185 

TO   YOUNG   188 

HERMANN  AND  THUSNELDA   189 


A.  L.  FOLLEN. 


ARNOLD  STRUTHAN  OF  WINKELRIED 
PATRIOTIC  SONG  


193 

198 


XVI 


CONTENTS. 


ARNDT. 

Page. 

the  German's  father-land.    ....  203 
HERDER. 

THE  ORGAN.                                                                         .     .          .  209 

RICHTER. 

A  SCENE  IN  THE  POLAR  REGIONS.        .                     ....  215 

PFEFFEL. 

THE  NOBLEMAN  AND  THE  PENSIONER.                        ....  219 

THE  SWAN   222 

THE  MUSIC   OF  THE  SPHERES   223 

STOLBERG. 

TO  THE  SEA   227 

THE  OLD   SWABIAN  WARRIOR'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SON.     .     .  229 

THE  WIFE   231 

CLAUDIUS. 

WINTER   235 

NIGHT  SONG   237 

GLEIM. 

THE  INVITATION  SARAH  H.  WHITMAN.  241 

WAR  SONG   242 

SCHMIDT. 

THE  STRANGER'S  EVENING  SONG   247 

MY  NATIVE  LAND   249 

LANGBEIN. 

THE  JOURNEY  OF  LIFE   253 

II A  BICH   AND  HÄTTICH   255 


CONTENTS.  XVÜ 

GELLERT. 

Page. 

THE  WIDOW   259 

KERNER. 

the  richest  prince   265 

emigrant's  song   267 

a  poet's  solace   268 

MAHLMANN. 

OLD  FATHER  MARTIN.    271 

TIECK. 

SPRING                                                                                   ....  277 

BRUNN. 

CHAMOUNY  AT  SUNRISE   281 

MAY  SONG   283 

KOSEGARTEN. 

THE  AMEN  OF  THE  STONES   287 

A  SONG  OF  THE  NIGHT.       ...    289 

VIA  CRUCIS  VIA   LUCIS   291 

KRUMMACHER. 

MOUNTAIN   AND  VALLEY                                                      .     .  295 

THE  SETTING  SUN     297 

NOVALIS. 

SONG  OF  ZULIMA,  THE  ARABIAN  CAPTIVE.       S.  H.  WHITMAN.  301 

UNION   303 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

SONGS  OF  LIFE. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  LIFE.  —  ROSEMANN  309 

MY  HEART  311 


XVIÜ  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

german  nursery  song   313 

nurse's  watch   314 

chimney-sweeper's  SONG.  EICHHOLZ   316 

the  postilion   319 

miller's  song.  —  fr.  poeschmann   320 

advertisement  of  a  menagerie.     .    321 

fisher's  song     323 

hunting  song  sarah  h.  whitman.  324 

THE  flax-spinner's  SONG   326 

love  song  of  a  laplander.  kleist   328 

dainty  dolly.  u.  p   330 

praise  of  singing.  .    332 

hunter's  chorus,  from  "  der  freischütz."    ....  333 

huntsman's  song   334 

skater's  song. —  herder   335 

the  soap-bubble   337 

this  world  is  all  a  mighty  choir.  kotzebue.    .    .  338 

grave-digger's  song.      graf  von  mell1n   339 

SONGS  OF  NATURE. 

MORN  AMID  THE  MOUNTAINS   343 

SPRING  EVENING  JOHN   S.  DWIGHT.  344 

SPRING  IS  COMING  JOHN  S.  DWIGHT.  346 

SUMMER  SONG   348 

HARVEST  SONG.  —  SALIS   349 

SONG  FOR  ALL  SEASONS   351 

MORNING  SONG   352 

TO  THE   SETTING   SUN   353 

O,  HOW  SWEET,  WHEN  DAYLIGHT  CLOSES   355 

NIGHT  SONG   356 

SPRING   SONG   357 

NIGHT   SONG   359 

BURIAL  OF  THE   SEED   361 

SUMMER   362 

WINTER  SONG   363 

THE   LARK   364 

BUGLE   SONG   365 

SERENADE   366 


CONTENTS.  Xix 

Page. 

THE  RIVULET   367 

THE  FORGET-ME-NOT   368 

HOME  AND  LIBERTY. 

the  watch-fire.  collin   371 

the  German's  native  land   373 

patriotic  song   374 

HOxMESICKNESS   375 

FESTIVE  SONG.  MILLER   376 

THE  EXILE  S  RETURN   377 


NOTES  379 


UHLAND. 


Simple  songs  are  we,  —  romances, — 
All  of  light  and  easy  measure,  — 

What  one  either  sings  or  dances, 
Hums  or  whistles,  at  his  pleasure. 

From  the  Preface  to  the  First  Edition 


UHLAND. 


POOR  MAN'S  SONG. 

A  poor  man's  lot,  please  Heaven,  is  mine 

I  roam  the  world  alone ; 
And,  could  I  only  not  repine, 

The  world  were  all  mine  own. 

Once  in  my  parents'  house  I  played, 

A  joyous,  thoughtless  boy ; 
But  since  those  friends  in  dust  were  laid, 

I've  felt  no  ray  of  joy. 

I  see  the  rich  man's  garden  shine, 

The  golden  harvest  glow ; 
Alas  !  the  barren  road  is  mine, 

Where  toil  and  sorrow  go. 

And  yet,  while  thus  I  journey  on 

Amid  the  joyous  throng, 
And  wish  good  day  to  every  one, 

Though  grief  hath  sealed  my  tongue, 

My  bounteous  God,  how  can  I  say 
I  wander  joyless  here, 


4 


UHLAN  I). 


When  Thou  hast  strowed  the  world's  highway 
With  blessings  all  so  dear  ? 

Doth  not  each  lowliest  hamlet  rear 

A  holy  house  to  Thee, 
Where  organ-peal  greets  every  ear, 

And  choral  melody  ? 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  with  their  mild  glow, 

Smile  not  the  less  on  me  ; 
Ana  wnen  the  evening-bell  peals  low, 

Then,  Lord,  I  speak  with  Thee. 

And  when,  at  length,  each  worthy  guest 

Shall  to  thy  courts  repair, 
Then,  in  the  wedding-garment  dressed, 

I,  too,  thy  feast  may  share. 


THE  CHAPEL. 


THE  CHAPEL. 

Yonder  chapel,  on  the  mountain, 

Looks  upon  a  vale  of  joy ; 
There,  below,  by  moss  and  fountain, 

Gayly  sings  the  herdsman's  boy. 

Hark !  upon  the  breeze  descending, 
Sound  of  dirge  and  funeral  bell ; 

And  the  boy,  his  song  suspending, 
Listens,  gazing  from  the  dell. 

Homeward  to  the  grave  they're  bringing 
Forms  that  graced  the  peaceful  vale ; 

Youthful  herdsman,  gayly  singing ! 
Thus  they'll  chant  thy  funeral  wail. 

a2 


UHLAND. 


SHEPHERD'S  SUNDAY  SONG. 

This  is  the  Lord's  own  day ! 
On  the  broad  meadow,  all  alone, 
I  hear  the  morning-bell's  last  tone  — 

Now  that  has  died  away. 

In  prayer  I  bend  the  knee ; 
Mysterious  joy  !  O  bliss  profound  ! 
Methinks  unseen  ones  throng  around, 

And  kneel  in  prayer  with  me. 

Now,  near  and  far  away, 
All  is  so  solemn,  still,  and  bright, 
Heaven  seems  just  opening  to  the  sight ; 

This  is  the  Lord's  own  day ! 


SONG  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  BOY. 


SONG  OF  TUE  MOUNTAIN  BOY. 

The  mountain  shepherd  boy  am  I ; 
The  castles  all  below  me  spy. 
The  sun  sends  me  his  earliest  beam, 
Leaves  me  his  latest,  lingering  gleam. 
I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain  ! 

The  mountain  torrent's  home  is  here, 
Fresh  from  the  rock  I  drink  it  clear; 
As  out  it  leaps  with  furious  force, 
I  stretch  my  arms  and  stop  its  course. 
I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain ! 

1  claim  the  mountain  for  my  own ; 
In  vain  the  winds  around  me  moan ; 
From  north  to  south  let  tempests  brawl, 
My  song  shall  swell  above  them  all. 
I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain ! 

Thunder  and  lightning  below  me  lie, 
Yet  here  I  stand  in  upper  sky ; 
I  know  them  well,  and  cry,  "  Harm  not 
My  father's  lowly,  peaceful  cot." 
I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain ! 


8 


UHLAND. 


But  when  I  hear  the  alarm-bell  sound, 
When  watchfires  gleam  from  the  mountains  round, 
Then  down  I  go  and  march  along, 
And  swing  my  sword  and  sing  my  song. 
I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain  . 


RESOLUTION. 


Ü 


RESOLUTION. 

She  comes  to  these  still  groves ;  I  hear  her ; 

And  now  I  feel  a  bolder  heart. 
The  gentle  child —  why  need  I  fear  her? 

She  never  caused  one  breast  to  smart. 

The  others,  they  all  gladly  greet  her ; 

But  I  pass  by  —  occasion  flies ; 
The  loveliest  of  the  stars,  I  meet  her, 

Yet  ne'er  to  her  can  lift  my  eyes. 

The  flowers  all  bow,  and  seem  to  know  her  ; 

The  birds  in  merry  carols  vie ; 
All  they  their  love  may  freely  show  her  ; 

Ah  !  why  so  timid  only  1 1 

To  Heaven  how  often  I've  lamented, 
The  whole  night  long,  most  bitterly ! 

But  I  have  never  yet  attempted 

The  one  small  word,  the  —  "  I  love  thee." 

Here  every  day  I've  seen  her  walking, 
And  here  beneath  the  trees  I'll  lie ; 

Like  one  in  dreams,  I'll  still  keep  talking, 
And  call  her  my  sweet  life  for  aye. 


UHLAND 


I  will  —  ah  me  !  ah,  woe  betide  me ! 

She's  coming  now  —  she'll  see  me  here ; 
I'll  to  the  thicket  run  and  hide  me, 

There  watch  her  pass  and  disappear. 

J.  S.  D. 


BAD  NEIGHBORHOOD. 


BAD  NEIGHBORHOOD 

I  quit  this  narrow  room  but  rarely, 

Yet  even  here  is  labor  sore; 
My  books  are  open  late  and  early ; 

Still  o'er  the  self-same  page  I  pore. 

For,  ah  !  that  flute,  so  sweetly  pealing, 
Now  leads  my  willing  thoughts  astray, 

And  now  one  look  I  must  be  stealing 
At  my  fair  neighbor  o'er  the  way. 


UHLAND. 


ON  A  POET  WHO  WAS  STARVED  TO  DEATH. 

Such  lot  was  thine  —  pale  sorrow  marked 

Thy  short  and  dismal  day; 
Just  as  a  poet  should,  hast  thou 

Dried  up  and  passed  away. 

E'en  at  thy  cradle's  side  the  muse 

Gave  token  of  thy  fate  ; 
To  nought  but  song  thy  infant  mouth 

She  then  did  consecrate. 

Thy  tender  mother  early  died  ; 

There,  too,  we  read  thy  doom, 
And  felt  that  ne'er  from  earthly  breast 

For  thee  should  fortune  bloom. 

The  world's  o'erflowing  cup  of  joy 

'Twas  not  for  thee  to  sip ; 
The  sparkling  rim  might  glad  thine  eye, 

But  never  touch  thy  lip ! 

The  smile  of  Spring  was  life  to  thee ; 

Her  blossoms  wove  thy  dream  ; 
But  others  stripped  the  bending  tree, 

And  drank  the  purple  stream. 


ON  A   POET  WHO   WAS   STARVED  TO  DEATH. 

Full  often,  on  the  festive  day, 

Cold  water  thou  hast  poured, 
When  with  thy  songs  the  sons  of  wealth 

Have  spiced  their  groaning  board. 

E'en  here  below  we  looked  on  thee 

As  scarce  with  flesh  endued, 
And  now  thou  hast  gone  home  again 

To  eat  ambrosial  food. 

Farewell !    We  carry  to  the  grave 

What  seems  a  corpse  to  be  ! 
Thy  step  was  light  upon  the  earth  — 

May  earth  rest  light  on  thee ! 


UHLAND. 


THE  PASSAGE. 

Years  have  vanished,  like  a  dream, 
Since  I  ferried  o'er  this  stream; 
Flood  and  castle,  as  of  old, 
Glimmer  now  in  evening's  gold. 

Two  companions,  loved  and  triea, 
Then  sailed  over  by  my  side ; 
One  was  fatherlike  —  the  other 
Young  and  generous  as  a  brother. 

One  in  quiet  spent  life's  day, 

Then  sank  quietly  away ; 

But  the  other  earlier  passed 

Home  through  battle  and  through  blast. 

When  I  thus  live  fondly  o'er 

Days  gone  by  to  come  no  more, 

I  must  ever  miss  and  mourn 

Friends  whom  death  has  from  me  torn. 

Yet  when  heart  and  heart  unite, 
Friendship's  chain  is  then  most  bright; 
Thus  the  friends  to  memory  dear 
Still,  in  soul,  are  with  me  here. 


THF  PARAGE. 


Threefold  fare,  O  pilot,  take, 
For  a  grateful  stranger's  sake ; 
Two,  that  ferried  o'er  with  me, 
Spirits  were,  unseen  by  thee. 


UMLAND. 


A  fOET'S  BLESSING. 

As  I  roamed  the  fields  along, 
Listening  to  the  linnet's  song, 
I  beheld  an  old  man  there, 
Toiling  hard,  with  hoary  hair. 

"  Blessings  on  this  field,"  I  cried, 
"  Such  a  faithful  laborer's  pride! 
Blessings  on  this  withered  hand, 
Scattering  seed  along  the  land  !  " 

Answered  me  his  look  severe :  — 
"  Poet's  blessing  boots  not  here  ; 
Like  the  wrath  of  Heaven  it  falls ; 
Flowers,  not  corn,  to  life  it  calls." 

"  Friend  !  these  songs  of  lighter  hours 
Waken  not  too  many  flowers  ; 
Just  enough  to  deck  the  land, 
And  fill  thy  little  grandson's  hand." 


SUNDOWN. 


SUNDOWN. 

Now  the  sun,  his  journey  ending, 

Sinks,  his  burning  brow  to  lave ; 
How  he  lingers,  still  descending 

To  the  tranquil  western  wave  ! 
Hushed  each  breeze  and  calm  each  billow ; 

Gilded  clouds  attend  his  way; 
Ocean  smooths  her  rugged  pillow 

To  receive  the  king  of  day. 

Silence  comes,  with  evening  shadows. 

On  the  mountain  and  the  plain ; 
Only  in  the  darkling  meadows 

Still  the  quail  prolongs  her  strain ; 
And  the  lark  goes  singing,  soaring 

Upward  from  the  fragrant  dell, 
To  the  last  faint  sunbeam  pouring 

Gratefully  her  fond  farewell. 

B  2 


UHLAND. 


ONE  EVENING. 

Now,  —  as  if  nought  had  happened,  —  all  is  still; 

Silent  the  bell,  and  hushed  the  funeral  strain. 
My  heart  grows  light  —  my  eyes  more  freely  fill, 

Since  in  the  grave  her  gentle  form  hath  lain. 

While  that  pale  shroud  did  in  the  house  remain, 
I  knew  not  where  to  seek  my  heart's  best  friend ; 

She  seemed  to  me  somewhere,  with  mournful  mien, 

Homeless  to  hover,  earth  and  heaven  between. 

The  evening  sun  blazed  forth  ;  I  sought  the  shade, 
And  gazed  far  down  upon  the  meadow's  green  ; 

On  the  bright  lawn  methought  two  children  played, 
Blooming,  as  we  had  bloomed  in  youth's  gay  scene. 
The  sun  went  down  ;  gray  Evening  spread  her  veil ; 

Fled  are  the  visions  now,  and  dark  the  lawn  ; 
I  lift  my  eyes,  and  the  rich  evening-gold, 
And  all  my  joy  on  high,  in  heavenly  realms  behold ! 


A  LEAF. 


A  LEAF. 


A  leaf  falls  softly  at  my  feet, 
Sated  with  rain  and  summer  heat  ; 
What  time  this  leaf  was  green  and  new, 
I  still  had  parents  dear  and  true. 

A  leaf  —  how  soon  it  fades  away ! 
Child  of  the  spring,  the  autumn's  prey  ; 
Yet  has  this  leaf  outlived,  I  see, 
So  much  that  was  most  dear  to  me. 


Uli  LAND. 


ON  A  GRAVESTONE. 

If  on  this  gravestone  thou  beholdest 
Two  hands  together  clasped  fast, — 

That  means  our  earthly  ties,  our  oldest, 
So  deep,  but  ah !  so  short  to  last ! 

It  means  the  parting  hour,  when  slowly 
Hand  out  from  hand  is  wrung  with  pain  ; 

It  means  the  bond  of  spirits  holy, 
The  greeting  there  in  heaven  again. 

J.  S.  D. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

Mother  !  thou  didst  watch  my  infant  eye 
Drink  the  earliest  beam  of  earthly  day  ; 

And  I  saw  thy  cheek,  when  thou  didst  die, 
Lighted  up  with  heaven's  first  morning  ray  ! 


THE  DYING  HEROES. 


21 


THE  DYING  HEROES. 

The  Danish  swords  are  driving  Sweden's  host 

To  the  wild  coast ; 
Rumbles  the  distant  car  ;  the  steel  gleams  bright 

By  the  moon's  light. 
There  lie,  expiring,  on  the  battle  plain, 
Ulf,  the  gray  hero,  and  the  blooming  Sven. 

SVEN. 

O  father  !  must  I  feel  in  youth's  bright  hour 

Pale  Noma's  power  ? 
Alas !  no  more  a  mother's  tender  care 

Shall  deck  my  hair. 
In  vain  my  maiden  on  the  lofty  tower 
Sits  gazing  through  the  weary,  anxious  hour. 

ULF. 

Well  may  they  shudder  when  we  meet  their  sight 

In  dreams  by  night! 
Yet  cheer  thee !    Soon  that  sorrowing  heart  shall 
break, 
All  for  thy  sake. 
Then  shall  the  loved  one,  decked  with  glistening 
gold, 

Thy  sparkling  cup  at  Odin's  banquet  hold. 


UHLAND. 


SVEN. 

A  song  have  I  begun,  framed  for  the  wire 

Of  golden  lyre, 
Of  the  dim,  distant  days  of  king  and  knight, 

Of  love  and  fight. 
The  harp  hangs  lonely  now ;  its  wonted  tone 
Wakes  at  the  breeze's  melancholy  moan. 

ULF. 

High  in  unclouded  sunshine  gleams  the  wall 

Of  Odin's  hall; 
The  stars  roll  under  it ;  far,  far  below 

The  tempests  go. 
There  with  the  fathers  we  shall  sup  ere  long  ; 
Now,  then,  lift  up  thy  voice  and  end  the  song ! 

% 

SVEN. 

O  father  !  must  I  feel  in  life's  young  hour 

Pale  Noma's  power  ? 
Alas  !  there  gleams  no  sign  of  glorious  field 

Upon  my  shield. 
Twelve  judges  sit,  each  on  his  awful  throne  ; 
Me  at  the  heroes'  feast  they  ne'er  will  own ! 

ULF. 

There  is  one  deed  shall  many  deeds  excel ; 

They  mark  it  well ; 
'Tis  when  the  hero,  his  loved  land  to  free, 

Falls  fearlessly. 
And  see  !  the  foe  is  flying  !  lift  thine  eyes  ! 
The  heavens  are  brightening  ;  there  our  pathway 
lies  ! 


THE  BLIND  KING. 


THE  BLIND  KING. 

Why  stands  unmoved  that  northern  host 

High  on  the  seaboard  there? 
Why  seeks  the  old  blind  king  the  coast, 

With  his  white,  wild-fluttering  hair  ? 
He,  leaning  on  his  staff  the  while, 

His  bitter  grief  outpours, 
Till  across  the  bay  the  rocky  isle 

Sounds  from  its  caverned  shores. 

"  From  the  dungeon-rock,  thou  robber  !  bring 

My  daughter  back  again  ! 
Her  gentle  voice,  her  harp's  sweet  string 

Soothed  an  old  father's  pain. 
From  the  dance  along  the  green  shore 

Thou  hast  borne  her  o'er  the  wave ; 
Eternal  shame  light  on  thy  head  ; 

Mine  trembles  o'er  the  grave." 

Forth  from  his  cavern,  at  the  word, 

The  robber  comes,  all  steeled, 
Swings  in  the  air  his  giant  sword, 

And  strikes  his  sounding  shield  : 
A  goodly  guard  attends  thee  there  ; 

Why  suffered  they  the  wrong  1 
Is  there  none  will  be  her  champion 

Of  all  that  mighty  throng  1  " 


UHLAND. 


Yet  from  that  host  there  comes  no  sound , 

They  stand  unmoved  as  stone ; 
The  blind  king  seems  to  gaze  around  : 

"  Am  I  all,  all  alone?" 
"  Not  all  alone  !  "  his  youthful  son 

Grasps  his  right  hand,  so  warm 
"  Grant  me  to  meet  this  vaunting  foe  ! 

Heaven's  might  inspires  my  arm." 

"  O  son  !  it  is  a  giant  foe  ; 

There's  none  will  take  thy  part ; 
Yet  by  this  hand's  warm  grasp,  I  know, 

Thine  is  a  manly  heart. 
Here,  take  the  trusty  battle-sword, — 

'Twas  the  old  minstrel's  prize;  — 
If  thou  art  slain,  far  down  the  flood 

Thy  poor  old  father  dies !  " 

And  hark  !  a  skiff  glides  swiftly  o'er, 

With  plashing,  spooming  sound  ; 
The  king  stands  listening  on  the  shore ; 

'Tis  silent  all  around. 
Till  soon  across  the  bay  is  borne 

The  sound  of  shield  and  sword, 
And  battle-cry,  and  clash,  and  clang, 

And  crashing  blows,  are  heard. 

With  trembling  joy  then  cried  the  old  king 
"  Warriors  !  what  mark  you  ?  tell ! 

'Twas  my  good  sword  ;  I  heard  it  ring ; 
I  know  its  tone  right  well." 


THE   BLIND  KING. 


26 


"  The  robber  falls  ;  a  bloody  meed 

His  daring  crime  hath  won  ; 
Hail  to  thee,  first  of  heroes  !  hail, 

Thou  monarch's  worthy  son  !  " 

Again  'tis  silent  all  around : 

Listens  the  king  once  more  : 
"  I  hear  across  the  bay  the  sound 

As  of  a  plashing  oar." 
"  Yes,  it  is  they  —  they  come  —  they  come  — 

Thy  son,  with  spear  and  shield. 
And  thy  daughter  fair,  with  golden  hair, 

The  sunny-bright  Gunild." 

"  Welcome!  "  exclaims  the  blind  old  man, 

From  the  rock  high  o'er  the  wave ; 
"  Now  my  old  age  is  blest  again ; 

Honored  shall  be  my  grave. 
Thou,  son,  shalt  lay  the  sword  I  wore 

Beside  the  blind  old  king. 
And  thou,  Gunilda,  free  once  more, 

My  funeral  song  shalt  sing." 


ÜHLAND. 


THE  PILGRIM. 

Yearning  for  scenes  of  promised  rest, 
The  weary  pilgrim  bends  his  way, 

Where  bright  the  city  of  the  blest 
Shines  in  serene,  eternal  day. 

"  In  thy  pure  mirror,  crystal  stream! 

Soon  shall  these  longing  eyes  behold, 
Reflected,  the  celestial  gleam 

Of  shining  gates  and  spires  of  gold. 

"  Ye  rocky  hills,  that  soar  on  high, 
And  stretch  across  my  onward  way  ! 

Your  sunny  tops  e'en  now  descry 
The  far-off  gates  of  endless  day  ! 

"  A  sound  of  distant  bells  draws  nigh  ; 

On  grove  and  stream  the  day  grows  pale 
O  had  I  wings,  that  I  might  fly 

Far,  far  away  o'er  hill  and  vale  !  " 

The  blissful  thought  his  soul  o'erpowers  ; 

He  faints  before  the  lengthening  road, 
And,  sinking  down  amid  the  flowers, 

Thinks  on  the  city  of  his  God. 


THE  PILGRIM. 


"  Alas  !  the  way  grows  rough  before  me  ; 

My  spirit  faints  ;  my  footsteps  fail  ! 
Come,  gentle  dreams  !  steal  softly  o'er  me, 

And  waft  me  to  the  blessed  vale  !  " 

He  saw  the  gates  of  heaven  unfold, 
And  thus  his  shining  angel  spoke  : 

"  Shall  He  the  needed  power  withhold. 
Whose  word  the  burning  impulse  woke  ? 

"  But  golden  dreams  and  fond  desires 
To  coward  hearts  alone  are  dear  ; 

A  nobler  strength  high  aim  inspires, 
And  brings  each  lovely  vision  near." 

The  fair  form  fades  at  morning  light ; 

The  pilgrim  grasps  his  staff  once  more, 
Toils  on  o'er  plain  and  mountain-height, 

And  now  is  at  the  golden  door. 

And,  lo !  like  fond,  maternal  arms, 
Wide  open  fly  the  gates  of  day, 

And  heavenly  harpings  welcome  in 
The  pilgrim  from  his  weary  way. 


28 


UHLAND. 


THE  LANDLADY'S  DAUGHTER. 

Three  students  were  travelling  over  the  Rhine  ; 
They  stopped  when  they  came  to  the  landlady's  sign. 
"  Good  landlady,  have  you  good  beer  and  wine  1 
And  where  is  that  dear  little  daughter  of  thine." 

"  My  beer  and  wine  are  fresh  and  clear ; 
My  daughter  she  lies  on  the  cold  death-bier !  " 
And  when  to  the  chamber  they  made  their  way, 
There,  dead,  in  a  coal-black  shrine,  she  lay. 

The  first  he  drew  near,  and  the  veil  gently  raised, 
And  on  her  pale  face  he  mournfully  gazed : 
"  Ah!  wert  thou  but  living  yet,"  he  said, 
"  I'd  love  thee  from  this  time  forth,  fair  maid  !  " 

The  second  he  slowly  put  back  the  shroud, 
And  turned  him  away,  and  wept  aloud  : 
"  Ah  !  that  thou  liest  in  the  cold  death-bier  ! 
Alas  !  I  have  loved  thee  for  many  a  year  !  " 

The  third  he  once  more  uplifted  the  veil, 
And  kissed  her  upon  her  mouth  so  pale  : 
"Thee  loved  I  always;  I  love  still  but  thee; 
And  thee  will  I  love  through  eternity !  " 

J.  S.  D. 


SERENADE. 


SERENADE 

"  What  gentle  music  wakens  me, 

And  murmurs  in  my  ear  ? 
O  mother  !  see  !  who  can  it  be, 

At  this  late  hour,  so  near?" 

"  I  hear  no  sound,  no  form  I  see; 

Sink  to  thy  rest,  so  mild ; 
No  serenade  comes  now  to  thee, 

Thou  poor  and  sickly  child  !  " 

"It  was  no  music  born  of  earth 
That  made  my  heart  so  light : 

O  mother !  'twas  the  angels'  song 
That  summoned  me.  —  Good  night 


30 


UHLAND. 


THE  POET'S  RETURN. 

There  lies  the  poet  on  the  bier  — 

His  pale  lips  closed  —  their  music  o'er  : 

Sad  Daphne  binds  with  yellow  hair 

The  brow  where  Memory  dwells  no  more. 

In  graceful  rolls  beside  him  lie 

The  last  sweet  songs  the  minstrel  sung  ; 
The  lyre  he  swept  so  gloriously 

Rests,  tuneless,  on  his  arm,  unstrung. 

And  thus  he  takes  his  last,  long  sleep : 
In  every  ear  his  song  sounds  on  ; 

But,  ah  !  it  wakens  anguish  deep 
With  thoughts  of  him  forever  gone  ! 

Months,  years,  in  rapid  course  have  fled ; 

High  o'er  his  tomb  the  cypress  waves  ; 
And  they  who  wept  the  minstrel  dead, 

Now  slumber  in  their  silent  graves. 

Yet  oft  as  smiling  spring  returns, 
With  life  and  beauty  on  the  plain, 

The  long-departed  minstrel  yearns 
To  trace  his  favorite  haunts  again. 


THE  POBT  S  RETURN. 


Through  the  old  paths  he  loved  to  tread, 
He  glides  amid  the  living  throng ; 

And  the  past  age,  that  mourned  him  dead, 
Lives  only  in  his  deathless  song. 


Uli  LAND. 


A  DREAM. 

A  dream  came  lately  o'er  me  :  — 

I  lay  upon  a  steep 
And  grassy  promontory : 
Behind  were  hills,  before  me 

The  broad  and  boundless  deep. 

Below,  at  anchor  lying, 

I  saw  a  gay  skiff  ride, 
With  painted  streamers  flying  : 
The  pilot,  near,  stood  eyeing 

Impatiently  the  tide  ;  — 

When,  lo  !  from  distant  mountains 

There  came  a  merry  throng, 
Like  lovely  angels  shining  — 
Bright  flowers  each  brow  entwining. 
Seaward  they  swept  along. 

First  in  the  gay  procession, 

A  youthful  troop  advanced ; 
The  rest,  their  beakers  swinging, 
With  music  and  with  singing, 
Onward  merrily  danced. 


A  DREAM. 


They  came,  and  they  spoke  to  the  pilot :  — 

"  Old  man,  wilt  thou  bear  us  away? 
The  Joys  and  the  Pleasures  are  we, 
And  we  long  from  the  earth  to  be  free  : 
Old  man,  wilt  thou  take  us  to-day?" 

They  heard  the  old  mariner's  welcome  ; 

In  they  crowded,  and  up  went  the  sail. 
"  Now  tell  me,"  he  cried,  "  merry  group, 
Is  there  none  of  your  frolicsome  troop 

Still  lingering  by  mountain  or  vale?  " 

They  cried,  "  We  are  all !  we  are  ready  ! 

Crowd  sail !  we  must  hasten  !  speed  on ! ' 
They  started  ;  the  breezes  blew  steady  : 
I  lifted  my  eyes,  and  already 

The  earth's  Joys  and  Pleasures  were  gone 


I  H  LAND. 


TOM  THUMB. 

Ah  !  Tom  Thumb,  thou  little  hero ! 

Every  where  thy  fame  is  sounded  ; 
E'en  the  infant  in  the  cradle 

At  thy  story  stares  astounded. 
Who  can  hear  with  eye  unmoistened 

How  in  dismal  woods  they  found  thee, 
When  the  hungry  wolves  were  howling, 

And  the  night-winds  groaned  around  thee ! 
Who  can  read,  nor  quake  with  horror, — 

In  the  giant's  castle  sleeping, 
How  thou  heard'st  grim  Ogre  coming, 

And  thy  very  flesh  was  creeping ! 
On  the  rock  when  slept  the  giant, 

Snoring  till  the  woods  resounded, 
Thou  the  seven-leagued  boots  didst  pilfer, 

And  the  monster  woke  confounded. 
Ah !  Tom  Thumb  !  Tom  Thumb,  the  valiant ! 

Age  to  age  repeats  thy  story ; 
Cased  in  seven-leagued  boots,  thy  spirit 

Treads  the  widening  road  of  glory. 


THE  DEVOTEE. 


THE  DEVOTEE. 

'Mid  thy  rock-bound  shores,  Galicia, 

Lies  a  consecrated  place, 
Where  the  blessed  Virgin  Mother 

Lavishes  her  stores  of  grace. 
There,  for  every  way-worn  wanderer, 

Gleams  a  friendly  guiding  star ; 
There  a  peaceful  port  is  open 

To  the  seaman,  wrecked  afar. 

There,  when  tolls  the  bell  at  evening, 

Vales  and  mountains  echo  round  : 
From  the  cities,  from  the  cloisters, 

All  the  bells  send  back  the  sound. 
Then  each  angry,  bursting  billow 

Sinks  and  dies  along  the  shore, 
And  the  boatman  whispers,  "Ave !  " 

Kneeling,  with  suspended  oar. 

On  the  day  whose  hallowed  morning 

Sees  the  Virgin  heavenward  soar, 
There  to  meet,  revealed  in  glory, 

Him,  the  suffering  Son  she  bore,  — 
Round  her  shrine,  that  festive  morning, 

Wonders  manifold  appear ; 
They  who  gaze  on  that  bright  image 

Feel  a  holier  presence  near. 


UHLAND. 


Banners  of  the  cross,  resplendent, 

Through  the  fields  are  on  their  way ; 
Ships  and  boats,  with  painted  streamers 

Gayly  fluttering,  line  the  bay. 
Up  the  rocky  pathway  climbing, 

Rich-clad  pilgrims  wind  along, 
Till  the  mountain  seems  a  ladder 

Bearing  up  to  heaven  the  throng. 

In  the  rear,  bedusted,  barefoot, 

Coarse-clad  devotees  are  there, 
Each  with  wan  and  wasted  features, 

Wrinkled  hands  and  withered  hair. 
'Mongst  the  faithful  in  the  temple 

These  may  never  mingle  more, 
Ne'er  again  behold  the  altar,  — 

They  must  kneel  without  the  door. 

Who  is  he  comes  toiling  yonder  1 

From  his  eye  gleams  wild  despair  ; 
In  the  breeze  his  white  locks  flutter, 

Thinned  with  sorrow,  age,  and  care. 
From  his  wasted,  trembling  body 

Hancrs  a  black  and  galling  chain  ; 
Round  each  limb  an  iron  fetter 

Grinds  the  flesh  with  rending  pain. 

He,  when  hasty  passion  drove  him 
Once  a  brother's  blood  to  spill, 

Took  the  sword,  and,  while  'twas  reekin. 
Forged  the  chain  that  binds  him  still. 


THE  DEVOTEE. 


Homeless,  hopeless,  now  he  wanders  — 
Seeks  for  peace,  but  seeks  in  vain : 

Grace  alone,  a  wonder  working, 
Can  unbind  the  galling  chain. 

He  may  tread  on  soles  of  iron, 

And,  with  naked,  bony  feet. 
Wander  day  and  nignt,  bui  never  I 

Find  that  peace,  to  man  so  sweet ! 
Not  a  saint  looks  down  in  pity, 

When  he  shrieks  his  nightly  prayer; 
Not  a  shrine  of  heavenly  mercy 

Answers  to  his  wild  despair. 

Up  the  rocky  pathway  climbing, 

Near  the  door  behold  him  now, 
While  the  evening  bell  is  tolling, 

And  the  crowds  in  silence  bow. 
How  he  yearns  the  halls  to  enter, 

Where  the  Virgin's  image  gleams, 
As  the  western  sun,  descending, 

Through  each  rich-stained  window  beams . 

What  a  blaze  of  tranquil  glory 

Rests  on  meadow,  sky,  and  shore  ! 
Say,  when  heaven  received  the  Virgin, 

Closed  she  not  the  golden  door  1 
Where  yon  rosy  clouds  are  floating 

Trace  we  still  her  path  on  high  1 
In  the  deep  and  tranquil  azure 

Mark  we  still  her  beaming  eye  ? 


UHLAXD. 

Homeward  throng  the  enraptured  pilgrims 

One  still  lingers  at  the  place, 
Prostrate  on  the  threshold  lying, 

With  a  pale  and  ashen  face. 
Rusty  chains  still  fast  around  him, 

There  his  quivering  body  lies  ; 
But  his  soul,  now  free  forever, 

Floats  in  glory  through  the  skies  ! 


THE   BRIDGE  OF  BIDASSOA. 


THE  BRIDGE  OP  BIDASSOA.l 

On  the  bridge  of  Bidassoa 

Calm  a  saintly  image  stands, 
Blessing  here  the  Spanish  mountains, 

Blessing  there  the  Gallic  lands. 
Well  may  heaven's  free  fount  of  mercy 

On  that  spot  mild  solace  pour, 
Where  from  home  so  many  a  soldier 

Parted,  to  return  no  more. 

Round  the  bridge  of  Bidassoa 

Evermore  strange  magic  plays : 
There,  where  one  sees  gloom,  another 

Sees  a  golden  sunlight  blaze; 
There,  where  one  sees  roses  smiling, 

To  the  other  all  is  sand  ; 
For  who  dreads  not  gloomy  exile, 

Who  hails  not  his  native  land  i 

Peacefully  the  Bidassoa 

Murmurs  to  the  herdsman's  bell ; 
All  day  long,  among  the  mountains, 

Peal  on  peal  fierce  conflict  tell ; 


i  See  Note  A. 


UPLAND. 


And  at  evening,  pale  and  bleeding, 

Wildly  to  the  river's  side 
Comes  a  troop  with  tattered  banner, 

Deep  in  gore  their  pathway  dyed. 

At  the  bridge  of  Bidassoa 

On  their  rifles  now  they  rest ; 
Count  how  many  a  comrade  lingers, 

While  the  bleeding  wounds  are  dressed. 
Long  they  halt  and  wait  the  missing, 

Long  they  gaze  with  yearning  eyes, 
Till  the  rolling  drum  calls,  "  Order !  " 

And  a  veteran  captain  cries  — 

"  Roll  up,  then,  the  tattered  banner, 

Long  the  ensign  of  the  brave  ; 
Often  have  your  ranks,  retreating, 

Hurried  o'er  this  self-same  wave  ; 
Many  a  time,  thus  thinned  and  shattered, 

Refuge  you  have  sought  afar ; 
Still  your  ancient  glory  lingers, 

Still  there  gleams  a  friendly  star. 

"  Thou,  who  once,  our  rights  defending, 

Wound  on  wound  so  nobly  bore, 
Spirit  of  the  sainted  Mina, 

Be  our  champion  yet  once  more  ! 
There  he  stands,  all  bloodless,  comrades ! 

Still  beams  high  the  star  of  Spain  ! 
Cross  we,  then,  this  once,  the  river, 

Soon  to  come  in  strength  again  !  " 


THE    BRIDGE    OF  BIDASSOA. 


Marble-pale,  old  Mina  rises 

Slowly  from  the  silent  stone, 
Gazes  once  upon  the  mountains, 

Gleaming  in  the  western  sun ; 
From  his  breast  his  hand  removing, 

Former  wounds  he  onens  wide, 
And  the  bridge  of  Bidassoa 

Purples  in  the  gushing  tide. 


UHLAND. 


MINSTER  TRADITION 

On  the  minster  tower,  so  hoary, 
You'll  see,  both  great  and  small, 

Names  neatly  carved  for  glory  ; 
The  patient  stone  bears  all. 

Once,  up  those  airy  mazes 

An  eager  poet  pressed  ; 
Out  every  way  he  gazes  ; 

Then  chisels,  like  the  rest. 

The  bright  sparks,  how  they  crackle 
At  every  stroke  he  gives  ; 

The  trembling  tower  doth  rattle 
From  cellar-stone  to  eaves. 

Old  Erwin's  dust,  it  quivers 
Down  in  his  vault;  the  bell 

Deep,  solemn  tones  delivers; 
The  stone  leaves  rustle  well. 

The  huge  pile  gapes  asunder 
As  'twould  bring  forth  to-day 

From  its  old  womb  —  O  wonder  !  — 
What  part  unfinished  lay. 


MINSTER  TRADITION. 


41 


That  name  was  writ  not  vainly, 
Though  but  to  few  'twas  known ; 

For  still  it  stands  there  plainly  — 
A  name  the  world  will  own. 

Who,  since  that  day,  hath  wondered 
The  tower  for  him  thus  groaned, 

Whom,  years  these  half  a  hundred, 
Art's  echoing  world  hath  owned  I  1 

J.  S.  D. 

1  See  Note  B. 


UMLAND. 


THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL 

Of  Edenhall  the  youthful  lord 

Bids  sound  the  festal  trumpet's  call  ; 

He  rises  at  the  banquet  board, 

And  cries  'mid  the  drunken  revellers  all, 
"  Now  bring  me  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  " 

The  butler  hears  the  words  with  pain, 

The  house's  oldest  seneschal, 
Takes  slow  from  its  silken  cloth  again 

The  drinking-glass  of  crystal  tall  ; 

They  call  it  The  Luck  of  Edenhall 

Then  said  the  lord,  "  This  glass  to  praise, 
Fill  with  red  wine  from  Portugal  !  " 

The  gray-beard  with  trembling  hand  obeys , 
A  purple  light  shines  over  all ; 
It  beams  from  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  speaks  the  lord,  and  waves  it  light  — 
"  This  glass  of  flashing  crystal  tall 

Gave  to  my  sires  the  Fountain-Sprite ; 
She  wrote  in  it,  If  this  glass  doth  fall, 
Farewell  then,  O  Luck  of  Edenhall  ! 

"  'Twas  right  a  goblet  the  fate  should  be 

Of  the  joyous  race  of  Edenhall  ! 
We  drink  deep  draughts  right  willingly  ; 


THE   LUCK   OF  EDENHALL. 

And  willingly  ring  with  merry  call, 
Kling  !  klang !  to  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  " 

First  rings  it  deep,  and  full,  and  mild, 
Like  to  the  song  of  a  nightingale ; 

Then  like  the  roar  of  a  torrent  wild; 

Then  mutters,  at  last,  like  the  thunder's  fall, 
The  glorious  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

"  For  its  keeper,  takes  a  race  of  might 
The  fragile  goblet  of  crystal  tall ; 

It  has  lasted  longer  than  is  right; 

Kling  !  klang!  —  with  a  harder  blow  than  all 
Will  I  try  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  " 

As  the  goblet,  ringing,  flies  apart, 
Suddenly  cracks  the  vaulted  hall ; 

And  through  the  rift  the  flames  upstart; 
The  guests  in  dust  are  scattered  all 
With  the  breaking  Luck  of  Edenhall ! 

In  storms  the  foe,  with  fire  and  sword  ! 
He  in  the  night  had  scaled  the  wall ; 

Slain  by  the  sword  lies  the  youthful  lord, 
But  holds  in  his  hand  the  crystal  tall, 
The  shattered  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

On  the  morrow  the  butler  gropes  alone, 
The  gray-beard  in  the  desert  hall  . 

He  seeks  his  lord's  burnt  skeleton  ; 
He  seeks  in  the  dismal  ruin's  fall 
The  shards  of  the  Li::.,  of  Edenhall. 


UHLAND. 

"  The  stone  wall,"  saith  he,  "  doth  fall  aside; 
Down  must  the  stately  columns  fall : 

Glass  is  this  earth's  Luck  and  Pride; 
In  atoms  shall  fall  this  earthly  ball, 
One  day,  like  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  !" 


H.  W  L. 


THE   LOST  CHURCH. 


THE  LOST  CHURCH. 

Far  in  the  deep  and  lonely  wood,  — 

So  deep,  and  still,  and  lonely  all, 
Nought  breaks  the  silent  solitude, 

Save  chirp  of  bird  or  light  leaf's  fall, — 
At  times,  when  all  is  hushed,  the  ear 

Catches  a  low  and  solemn  knell, 
Borne  on  the  breezes,  sweet  and  clear, 

As  from  some  near,  unearthly  bell. 

No  living  memory  knows  the  time, 

In  vain  tradition  seeks  to  tell, 
When  first  was  heard  that  deep,  low  chime 

Down  in  the  silent,  lonely  dell. 
There  the  Lost  Church,  'tis  said,  once  stood, 

And  through  these  shades  a  pathway  wound, 
And  pilgrims  sought  the  lonely  wood ;  — 

But  now  no  footpath  can  be  found. 

As  late  I  sought  that  lonely  wood, 

And  mused  where  holy  feet  had  trod, 
And  there,  in  the  still  solitude, 

Breathed  out  my  yearning  soul  to  God, — 
When  all  was  wrapped  in  deep  repose, 

I  caught  that  solemn  peal  again ; 
The  higher  my  devotion  rose, 

The  nearer,  clearer  swelled  the  strain. 


UHLAND. 


My  soul  so  wakeful  grew  and  free, 

Each  sense  so  chained  by  that  sweet  sound, 
What  mighty  power  thus  wrought  in  me, 

Is  still  a  mystery  profound. 
It  seemed  as  many  a  hundred  year 

On  wing  of  dream  had  fled  away,  — 
When,  lo  !  above  the  clouds,  more  clear 

Than  noontide  light,  broke  heavenly  day. 

The  sun  poured  down  a  sparkling  flood, 

The  dark,  blue  heavens  beamed  full  and  bright, 
And  there  a  stately  minster  stood, 

Glittering  on  high  in  golden  light. 
Methought  gay  clouds  the  pile  upbore, 

Like  floating  wings  spread  out  on  high  ; 
I  saw  the  spire  still  heavenward  soar, 

And  vanish  in  the  boundless  sky. 

I  heard  the  bell,  with  solemn  swing, 

Thrill  out  through  all  the  trembling  tower  ; 
No  hand  of  mortal  drew  the  string  ; 

The  tongue  was  swayed  by  heavenly  power. 
Wild  rapture  whelmed  me  like  a  flood, 

A  tempest  wafted  me  on  high, 
Till  in  that  lofty  dome  I  stood, 

With  trembling  joy,  in  upper  sky. 

The  wonders  of  each  boundless  hall 
In  vain  would  mortal  tongue  portray; 

Dark  gleamed  from  window  and  from  wall, 
With  mystic  light,  in  long  array, 


THE   LOST  CHURCH. 


Forms  of  the  martyrs,  sainted  men, 
Who  shed  their  blood  in  sacred  strife ; 

And  holy  women,  a  bright  train, 
Rose  to  my  eye  in  heavenly  life. 

Low  at  the  altar's  base  I  kneeled, 

Burning  with  love  and  mute  with  awe  ; 
High  o'er  me,  in  bright  hues  revealed, 

Heaven's  glory  on  the  roof  I  saw. 
But,  when  I  raised  my  eyes  once  more, 

Arches,  and  dome,  and  roof,  had  sprung 
The  veil  was  rent  —  the  golden  door 

Of  heaven  itself  wide  open  flung. 

What  peerless  visions  met  my  eye,  — 

Still  rapt  in  ecstasy  profound, — 
What  blessed  music  floated  by, 

Holier  than  trump,  than  organ's  sound,  - 
In  vain  my  feeble  tongue  would  tell  : 

Let  him  whose  bosom  yearns  to  know, 
Go  listen,  in  the  lonely  dell, 

To  that  sweet  pealing,  wild  and  low ! 


KÖRN  ER. 


KÖRNER  1 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  "  LTRE  AND  SWORD  » 

All  ye  who  still,  with  friendly  hearts  and  true, 
Remember  him  that  boldly  struck  the  lyre,  — 

Who,  often  as  my  thoughts  your  forms  renew, 
With  sweet  and  sacred  peace  my  soul  inspire,  — 

Yours  is  this  lay !  —  O  that  it  might  to  you 

Bring  calm  and  cheering  thoughts !   With  storm 
and  fire 

Full  oft  have  my  wild  passions  vexed  your  breast ; 
Yet,  thanks ;  your  love  and  truth  unshaken  rest. 

Still  think  of  me  !  —  Our  country's  flags,  on  high, 
In  German  Freedom's  harbor  proudly  wave  : 

The  household  words  of  our  forefathers  cry, 

"Ye  minstrels,  on!  your  German  speech  to  save!" 

The  swelling  bosom  beats  impatiently 

To  hear  the  sweeping  storms  of  battle  rave ; 

The  lyre  is  hushed,  the  naked  blades  are  ringing. 

Come  forth,  my  sword !    time  thou  thy  song  wert 
singing. 

1  See  Note  C. 
E  2 


£4 


KÖRNER. 


True  souls  !  we  part :  —  loud  sounds  the  battle-cry  ! 

This  leaf  brings  back  to  you  a  friend's  farewell. 

Oft  at  the  sight  may  your  fond  bosoms  swell, 
Oft  may  his  image  steal  o'er  memory's  eye;  — 

And  if,  perchance,  some  future  hour  should  tell, 

How,  marching  home  from  victory,  I  fell, 
Think  of  my  bliss,  and  let  each  tear  be  dry ; 

For  what  the  Lyre  had  sung  with  prophet's  tone. 

Then  will  the  daring  Sword  have  made  its  own  ! 


THE  FIVE  OAKS  BEFORE  DALLWITZ. 


THE  FIVE  OAKS  BEFORE  DALLWITZ. 

Noisy  day  is  done;  its  bright  hues  fade; 

Redder  glows  the  sun's  declining  ray  : 
Here,  beneath  your  spreading  twilight-shade, 

Prompts  my  swelling  heart  the  pensive  lay. 

True  old  chroniclers  of  ages  gray, 
Ye  are  still  in  life's  fresh  green  arrayed, 

And  the  mighty  forms  of  years  gone  by 

Still  are  with  us  in  your  majesty. 

Many  a  noble  form  has  death  laid  low ; 

Many  a  flower  too  early  snatched  away ; 
Through  your  softly-glimmering  twigs  e'en  now 

Steals  the  farewell  smile  of  dying  day. 
Yet,  unheeding  Time's  remorseless  flow, 

Ye  have  bid  defiance  to  decay  ; 
In  your  twigs  I  hear  a  voice  that  saith, 
Whispering,  "  What  is  great  shall  live  through  death 

And  ye  have  lived  on  !  —  Ye  tower  on  high, 
Bold  and  fresh,  in  vigorous  green  arrayed. 

Haply  not  a  pilgrim,  journeying  by, 

But  shall  rest  him  in  your  soothing  shade. 

What  though  pale-faced  Autumn,  with  a  sigh, 
Marks  your  leafy  children  fall  and  fade  ? 

E'en  in  death  they  keep  a  precious  trust ; 

Your  spring  glories  bloom  from  out  their  dust. 


KORNER. 


Fair  image  of  old  German  loyalty, 
As  in  better  days  it  has  been  known, 

When,  with  glad  devotion  fired,  the  free, 
Dying,  laid  their  country's  corner-stone, 

Why  should  I  renew  the  pang  ?   Ah  me  ! 
'Tis  a  pang  each  bosom  feels  its  own ! 

Mightiest  of  the  mighty,  German  land, 

Thou  art  in  the  dust  —  thy  old  oaks  stand 


RA.UCH  S  BUST  OF  QUEEN  LOUISA. 


57 


RAUCH'S  BUST  OF  QUEEN  LOUISA.l 

How  soft  thy  sleep !  —  The  tranquil  features  seem 
To  breathe  again  thy  life's  fair  dreams  e'en  now ; 
'Tis  Slumber  droops  his  wings  around  thy  brow, 
And  sacred  Peace  hath  veiled  the  eye's  pure  beam. 

So  slumber  on,  till,  O  my  country!  thou, 
While  beacon-smoke  from  every  hill  doth  stream, 
And  the  long-rusted  swords,  impatient,  gleam, 
Shalt  raise  to  heaven  the  patriot's  holy  vow. 
Down,  down  through  night  and  death,  God's  way  may  lie ; 
Yet  this  must  be  our  hope  —  our  battle-cry  : 
Our  children's  children  shall  as  freemen  die! 
When  Freedom's  morning,  bloody-red,  shall  break, 
Then,  for  thy  bleeding,  praying  country's  sake, 
Then,  German  wife,  our  guardian  angel,  wake ! 


1  See  Note  D. 


KORNER. 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

Where  is  the  minstrel's  native  land?  — 
Where  sparks  of  noble  soul  flashed  high, 
Where  garlands  bloomed  in  honor's  eye, 
Where  manly  bosoms  glowed  with  joy, 

Touched  by  Religion's  altar-brand, 

There  was  my  native  land  ! 

Name  me  the  minstrel's  native  land.  — 
Though  now  her  sons  lie  slain  in  heaps, 
Though,  wounded  and  disgraced,  she  weeps, 
Beneath  her  soil  the  freeman  sleeps. 

The  land  of  oaks  —  the  German  land  — 

They  called  my  native  land  ! 

Why  weeps  the  minstrel's  native  land?  — 
To  see  her  people's  princes  cower 
Before  the  wrathful  tyrant's  power  : 
She  weeps,  that,  in  the  stormy  hour, 

No  soul  at  her  high  call  will  stand. 

That  grieves  my  native  land  ! 

Whom  calls  the  minstrel's  native  land?  — 
She  calls  the  voiceless  gods ;  her  cries, 
Like  thunder-storms,  assail  the  skies  ; 
She  bids  her  sons,  her  freemen,  rise ; 

On  righteous  Heaven's  avenging  hand 

She  calls —  my  native  land  ! 


MY   NATIVE  LAND. 

What  will  the  minstrel's  native  land?  — 
She'll  crush  the  slaves  of  despots'  power, 
Drive  off  the  bloodhounds  from  her  shore, 
Arid  suckle  freeborn  sons  once  more, 

Or  lay  them  free  beneath  the  sand. 

That  will  my  native  land  ! 

And  hopes  the  minstrel's  native  land  1  — 
She  hopes  —  she  hopes  !    Her  cause  is  just. 
Her  faithful  sons  will  wake  —  they  must. 
In  God  Most  High  she  puts  her  trust ; 

On  his  great  altar  leans  her  hand, 

And  hopes —  my  native  land  ! 


60 


KÖRNER. 


SUMMONS 

My  people,  wake!    The  signal-fires  are  smoking; 

Bright  breaks  the  light  of  Freedom  from  the  north  ; 
'Tis  time  thy  steel  in  foemen's  hearts  were  reeking. 
My  people,  wake  !    The  signal-fires  are  smoking ; 

The  fields  are  white ;  ye  reapers,  hasten  forth  ! 
The  last,  the  highest  hope  lies  in  the  sword  ; 

Home  to  thy  bleeding  breast  their  lances  strain ; 
Make  way  for  Freedom  !  *     Let  thy  blood  be  poured, 

To  cleanse  thy  German  land  from  every  stain. 

Ours  is  no  war  of  which  crowned  heads  are  dreaming ; 

'Tis  a  crusade,  a  holy  war  we  wage ! 
Faith,  virtue,  conscience,  truth,  and  honor  mourn  ; 
These  has  the  tyrant  from  thy  bosom  torn ; 

Thy  Freedom's  victory  saves  them  from  his  rage. 
The  moanings  of  thy  aged  cry,  "  Awake  !  " 

Thy  homes  in  ashes  curse  the  invading  brood, 
Thy  daughters  in  disgrace  for  vengeance  shriek, 

The  ghosts  of  slaughtered  sons  shriek  wild  for  blood. 

Break  up  the  ploughshare,  let  the  chisel  fall, 

The  lyre  be  hushed,  the  shuttle  cease  its  play  : 
Forsake  thy  courts,  leave  giddy  pleasure's  hall :  — 
He  in  whose  sight  thy  banners  flutter,  all, 
Will  see  his  people  now  in  war's  array. 


1  See  Note  E. 


SUMMONS. 


61 


For  thou  shalt  build  a  mighty  altar  soon 
In  his  eternal  Freedom's  morning  sky  ; 

With  thy  good  sword  shall  every  stone  be  hewn; 
On  heroes'  graves  the  temple's  base  shall  lie. 

Ye  maidens  and  ye  wives,  for  whom  the  Lord 

Of  Hosts  the  dreadful  sword  hath  never  steeled, 
When  mid  your  spoilers'  ranks  we  gladly  leap, 
And  bare  our  bosoms  to  the  strife,  why  weep 

That  you  may  not  stand  forth  on  glory's  field  ?  — 
Before  God's  altar  joyfully  repair  ; 

The  pangs  of  anxious  love  your  wounds  must  be ; 
To  you  He  gives,  in  every  heartfelt  prayer, 

The  spirit's  pure  and  bloodless  victory. 

Then  pray  that  God  would  wake  the  slumbering  fire, 

And  rouse  his  old,  heroic  race  to  life ; 
And,  O,  as  stern,  avenging  spirits,  call 
The  buried  German  martyrs,  one  and  all, 

As  holy  angels  of  the  holy  strife  ! 
Spirit  of  Ferdinand,  lead  thou  the  van ! 

Louisa,  faithful  to  thy  spouse,  be  nigh  ! 
And  all  ye  shades  of  German  heroes,  on, 

With  us,  with  us,  where'er  our  banners  fly ! 

The  might  of  Heaven  is  with  us ;  Hell  must  cower  : 
On,  valiant  people!  on!  'Tis  Freedom's  cry! 

Thy  heart  beats  high,  high  up  thy  old  oaks  tower  ; 

Heed  not  thy  hills  of  slain  in  victory's  hour  ; 
Plant  Freedom's  banner  there  to  float  on  high. 

F 


KORNER. 


And  now,  my  people,  when  thou  standest  free, 
Robed  in  the  brightness  of  thy  old  renown, 

Let  not  the  faithful  dead  forgotten  be, 

And  place  upon  our  urn  the  oaken  crown  ! 


SONG  OF  THE  BLACK  HUNTERS. 


63 


SONG  OP  THE  BLACK  HUNTERS. 

To  field,  to  field  !  the  avenging  spirits  mutter  : 

On,  Germans,  to  the  fight ! 
To  field,  to  field  !  Our  banners  proudly  flutter ; 

To  victory  they  invite. 

Oar  band  is  small,  but  great  is  our  reliance 

On  God's  avenging  arm  ; 
Backed  by  his  angel-host,  we  bid  defiance 

To  each  infernal  charm. 

No  quarter  give !  If  the  cramped  sword  should  falter, 

Then  grapple  fearlessly ! 
Sell  high  the  last  life-drop  !  On  Freedom's  altar 

It  falls.    The  dead  are  free! 

Still  sad  and  stern,  as  o'er  dead  valor  leaning, 

We  go  in  black-dressed  ranks  ; 
Yet,  should  they  bid  you  tell  this  red  stripe's  1  meaning, 

—  That  means  the  blood  of  Franks  ! 

God  speed  !  —  And  when,  o'er  foemen's  corpses  beaming, 

The  star  of  peace  shall  rise, 
A  snow-white  banner,  o'er  the  free  Rhine  streaming, 

Shall  greet  your  anxious  eyes. 


1  See  Note  F. 


64 


KÖRNER. 


COVENANT-SONG  BEFORE  BATTLE, 
ON  THE  MORNING  OF  THE  FIGHT  NEAR  D ANNEBERG 

Awful  omens,  dark  and  ruddy, 
Usher  in  this  morn  of  wrath, 
And  the  sun  looks  cold  and  bloody 

Out  upon  our  bloody  path. 
Startling  news  a  world  will  waken 
Ere  a  few  more  hours  are  past, 
And  e'en  now  the  lots  are  shaken, 
And  the  iron  die  is  cast. 
Brothers,  the  night-shades  are  flying !  —  take  warning. 
Now,  by  the  fresh,  holy  light  of  the  morning, 
Swear,  hand  in  hand,  to  be  true  to  the  last. 

In  the  gloom  of  nights  behind  us 

Insult,  ignominy  frown  — 
Foreign  slaves,  with  chains  to  bind  us, 
And  our  German  oak  bowed  down. 
Shamed  has  been  the  speech  our  mothers 
Taught  us,  and  our  Gods  blasphemed  ; 
We  have  pawned  our  honor  ;  —  Brothers, 
German  Brothers,  be  it  redeemed  ! 
Brothers,  the  hour  is  come  !    Side  by  side  stand  now ! 
Turn  Heaven's  wrath  from  your  loved  native  land  now  ! 
Let  the  Palladium  —  the  lost  — be  redeemed  ! 


COVENANT-SONG   BEFORE  BATTLE. 

In  the  smile  of  hope  before  us 

Lies  a  golden  future  time  ; 
Open,  sunny  skies  bend  o'er  us; 

There,  in  Freedom's  blissful  clime, 
German  Art  and  Music  greet  us, 

Woman's  grace  and  love's  delight, 
All  old  forms  of  greatness  meet  us, 

Beauty's  charms  again  invite. 
But  bloody-red  must  that  morning  be  breaking  : 
Brothers,  our  life's  last,  warm  drop  we  are  staking 
Our  hope  blooms  only  in  martyrdom's  night ! 

Yet,  God  help,  we  will  not  falter ; 

As  one  man  we'll  meet  the  foe, 
Lay  our  heart  on  Freedom's  altar, 

And  to  death,  unshrinking,  go. 
Fatherland,  for  thee  we  dare  it; 

At  thy  word  we  do  and  die, 
That  our  loved  ones  may  inherit 

This  day's  blood-bought  liberty. 
Free  German  oaks,  let  your  branches  be  sweeping, 
Long,  o'er  the  graves  where  our  ashes  are  sleeping 
Fatherland,  hear  our  oath  !   bear  it  on  high ! 

One  last  look,  ere  yet  we  sever 

Ties  that  long  have  bound  us  fast ; 
Be  the  poisonous  south  forever, 

With  its  charms,  behind  us  cast. 
Yet  stay  not  the  tear  that's  springing, 

Comrades,  in  each  manly  eye  : 
To  the  winds  a  last  kiss  flinging, 

Give  them  up  to  God  on  high. 


GG 


KÖRNER. 


To  all  the  warm  lips  that  for  us  shall  be  pleading, 
To  all  the  fond  hearts  that  shall  lie  crushed  and  bleeding, 
God  of  all  might  and  all  mercy,  be  nigh ! 

Forth  !  To  battle  now,  unshrinking  ! 

Upward,  heavenward,  hearts  and  eyes  ! 
Every  earthly  sun  is  sinking, 

And  the  unfading  splendors  rise. 
German  Brothers,  quail  not  —  never  ! 

Let  each  nerve  a  hero  tell ! 
Faithful  hearts  part  not  forever  ; 
For  a  little  space,  farewell ! 
Hark  !  They  advance  !  How  the  deep  thunder  crashes  ! 
Brothers,  charge    home  through    the  hailstones  and 
flashes  ! 

We  meet  again  in  heaven  !  Farewell ! 


PRAYER   DURING  BATTLE. 


67 


PRAYER  DURING  BATTLE. 

Father,  I  call  on  thee. 
The  roaring  artillery's  clouds  thicken  round  me, 
The  hiss  and  the  glare  of  the  loud  bolts  confound  me  , 

Ruler  of  battles,  I  call  on  thee. 

O  Father,  lead  thou  me. 

O  Father,  lead  thou  me ; 
To  victory,  to  death,  dread  Commander,  O  guide  me  ; 
The  dark  valley  brightens  when  thou  art  beside  me ; 

Lord,  as  thou  wilt,  so  lead  thou  me. 

God,  I  acknowledge  thee. 

God,  I  acknowledge  thee  ; 
When  the  breeze  through  the  dry  leaves  of  autumn  is 
moaning, 

When  the  thunder-storm  of  battle  is  groaning, 

Fount  of  mercy,  in  each  I  acknowledge  thee. 
O  Father,  bless  thou  me. 

O  Father,  bless  thou  me ; 
J  trust  in  thy  mercy,  whate'er  may  befall  me  : 
'Tis  thy  word  that  hath  sent  me  ;  that  word  can  recall  me. 

Living  or  dying,  O  bless  thou  me. 

Father,  I  honor  thee. 


KORN  KR. 


Father,  I  honor  thee  ; 
Not  for  earth's  hoards  or  honors  we  here  are  contending  ; 
All  that  is  holy  our  swords  are  defending  : 

Then  falling,  and  conquering,  I  honor  thee. 

God,  I  repose  in  thee. 

God,  I  repose  in  thee  ; 
When  the  thunders  of  death  my  soul  are  greeting, 
When  the  gashed  veins  bleed,  and  the  life  is  fleeting, 

In  thee,  my  God,  I  repose  in  thee. 

Father,  I  call  on  thee. 


DISCONTENT. 


DISCONTENT.  1 

'Twas  thy  call,  my  native  land, 
Broke  the  minstrel's  golden  dream. 

Kindled  by  thy  high  command, 

In  the  field  he  burned  to  stand, 
Where  the  tyrant's  lances  gleam. 

Love  and  friendship,  song  and  gladness. 
Bitterly  he  must  resign, 

Taste  the  parting  cup  of  sadness,  — 
And  be  thine. 

Yet  how  oft  fond  memory's  eye, 

Weeping,  through  the  past  would  rove 

On  the  bridge  of  melody 

Back  his  dreaming  heart  would  fly 
To  the  golden  land  of  love. 

Vain,  alas!  the  dear  delusion; 

For  the  hours,  with  whirlwind's  blast, 

To  the  midst  of  life's  confusion 
Bore  him  fast. 

Still  he  lingers  —  O,  how  long  ?  — 

Till  the  blood-red  morn  shall  shine. 
Give  me  back  the  peaceful  song, 
Or  the  war-note,  stern  and  strong ; 
Death  or  music  must  be  mine. 


1  See  Note  G. 


KÖRNER. 


Let  the  poet's  eyes  be  streaming 

Through  the  inspired,  love-crowned  night, 
Or  with  joy  ecstatic  gleaming 
For  the  fight. 

Hark  !  the  distant  cannon's  thundering  !  — 

Cymbals  mingle  in  the  roar  ; 
Germany  her  wreaths  is  squandering ; 
And  shall  I  be  idly  wandering 

Here,  along  the  lonesome  shore? 
Must  I  thus  in  prose  expire  ? 

O  thou  awful  Poesy, 
Flash  thy  lightnings  forth!   live  fount  of  fire 
Set  me  free  ! 


FAREWELL  TO  LIFE. 


FAREWELL  TO  LIFE. 

The  wound  is  hot ;  my  quivering  lips  grow  dry ; 
I  feel  the  limit  of  my  days  is  nigh  ; 
My  heart's  faint  throbbings  tell  me  it  must  be. 
God,  as  thou  wilt ;  I  gave  myself  to  thee. 

What  golden  forms  I  saw  around  me  throng ! 
Their  lovely  music  is  my  funeral  song. 
Then,  courage  !  what  my  heart  holds  true  and  dear 
Shall  live  with  me  through  heaven's  unfading  year. 

That  holy  thing,  my  early,  constant  aim,  — 

Be  Liberty  or  Love  its  sacred  name,  — 

That  woke  my  youthful  bosom's  brightest  flame, 

Stands  by  me  as  a  seraph  robed  in  light  ; 

And,  as  my  senses  slowly  sink  in  night, 

Borne  by  a  breath,  I  soar  to  the  morn-reddened  height. 


72 


KORNER. 


LÜTZOW'S  WILD  CHASE. 

What  gleams  from  yon  wood  in  the  sunbeams'  play  ? 

Hark  !  hark  !  It  sounds  nearer  and  nearer  ; 
It  winds  down  the  mountain  in  gloomy  array, 
And  the  blast  of  its  trumpets  is  bringing  dismay 

To  the  soul  of  the  manliest  hearer. 
Go,  read  it  in  each  dark  comrade's  face  — 
"  That  is  Liitzow's  wild  and  desperate  chase." 

What  glances  so  swiftly  through  forest,  o'er  fell, 

From  mountain  to  mountain  flying  ? 
In  ambush  like  midnight  it  lies  in  the  dell ; 
The  hurrah  rings,  and  the  rifle's  knell 

Proclaims  the  French  beadles  are  dying. 
Go,  read  it  in  each  dark  hunter's  face  — 
"  That  is  Liitzow's  wild  and  desperate  chase." 

Where  the  rich  grapes  glow  and  the  Rhine  waves  roar, 

The  tyrant  thought  safely  to  hide  him  ; 
With  the  swiftness  of  lightning  it  flies  to  the  shore, 
Leaps  in,  and  with  sinewy  arm  swims  o'er, 

And  springs  to  the  bank  beside  him. 
Go,  read  it  in  each  dark  swimmer's  face  — 
"  That,  is  Liitzow's  wild  and  desperate  chase." 

Why  roars  in  yon  valley  the  din  of  fight, 
And  broadswords  tumultuouslv  clashing? 


LÜTZOW'S   WILD  CHASE. 


TS 


Stern  horsemen  are  battling  with  dreadful  delight, 
And  the  live  spark  ofliberty,  wakeful  and  bright, 

In  bloody-red  flames  is  fast  flashing. 
Go,  read  it  in  each  dark  horseman's  face  — 
"  That  is  Liitzow's  wild  and  desperate  chase." 

Lo,  smiling  farewell  'mid  the  foe's  dying  wail, 
Who  lies  there  with  bare  bosom  streaming  1 
Death  lays  his  cold  hand  on  that  young  brow,  pale  , 
But  never  shall  one  of  those  true  hearts  quail, 

For  the  star  of  their  country  is  beaming. 
Go,  read  it  in  each  pale,  marble  face  — 
"  That  was  Liitzow's  wild  and  desperate  chase  !  " 

The  wild,  wild  chase,  and  the  German  chase 

'Gainst  hangmen  and  tyrants,  is  ended. 
Come,  then,  ye  who  love  us,  wipe  tears  from  each  face, 
For  the  country  is  free,  and  the  morn  dawns  apace, 

Though  our  forms  in  the  grave  be  extended. 
Children's  children  shall  cry,  as  our  story  they  trace  — 
"  That  was  Liitzow's  wild  and  desperate  ctnse ! " 


74 


KÖRNER. 


MEN  AND  BOYS. 

The  storm  is  out ;  the  land  is  roused  ; 
Where  is  the  coward  who  sits  well-housed  1 
Fie  on  thee,  boy,  disguised  in  curls, 
Behind  the  stove,  'mong  gluttons  and  girls. 

A  graceless,  worthless  wight  thou  must  be; 

No  German  maid  desires  thee, 

No  German  song  inspires  thee, 

No  German  Rhine-wine  fires  thee. 
Forth  in  the  van, 
Man  by  man, 

Swing  the  battle-sword  who  can. 

When  we  stand  watching,  the  livelong  night, 
Through  piping  storms,  till  morning  light, 
Thou  to  thy  downy  bed  canst  creep, 
And  there  in  dreams  of  rapture  sleep. 
Chorus. 

When,  hoarse  and  shrill,  the  trumpet's  blast, 
Like  the  thunder  of  God,  makes  our  hearts  beat  fast, 
Thou  in  the  theatre  lov'st  to  appear, 
Where  trills  and  quavers  tickle  the  ear. 
Chorus. 

When  the  glare  of  noonday  scorches  the  brain, 
When  our  parched  lips  seek  water  in  vain, 


MEN  AND  BOYS. 


75 


Thou  canst  make  the  champagne  corks  fly, 
At  the  groaning  tables  of  luxury. 
Chorus. 

When  we,  as  we  rush  to  the  strangling  fight, 
Send  home  to  our  true  loves  a  long  "  Good  night," 
Thou  canst  hie  thee  where  love  is  sold, 
And  buy  thy  pleasure  with  paltry  gold. 
Chorus. 

When  lance  and  bullet  come  whistling  by, 
And  death  in  a  thousand  shapes  draws  nigh, 
Thou  canst  sit  at  thy  cards,  and  kill 
King,  queen,  and  knave,  with  thy  spadille. 
Chorus. 

If  on  the  red  field  our  bell  should  toll, 

Then  welcome  be  death  to  the  patriot's  soul. 

Thy  pampered  flesh  shall  quake  at  its  doom, 

And  crawl  in  silk  to  a  hopeless  tomb. 
A  pitiful  exit  thine  shall  be  ; 
No  German  maid  shall  weep  for  thee. 
No  German  song  shall  they  sing  for  thee, 
No  German  goblets  shall  ring  for  thee. 
Forth  in  the  van, 
Man  for  man, 
Swing  the  battle-sword  who  can. 


KÖRNER. 


SWORD  SONG. 

Sword,  on  my  left  side  gleaming, 
What  means  thy  bright  eye's  beaming? 
It  makes  my  spirit  dance 
To  see  thy  friendly  glance. 
Hurrah ! 1 

"  A  valiant  rider  bears  me; 
A  freeborn  German  wears  me  : 
That  makes  my  eye  so  bright ; 
That  is  the  sword's  delight." 
Hurrah ! 

Yes,  good  sword,  I  am  free, 
And  love  thee  heartily, 
And  clasp  thee  to  my  side 
E'en  as  a  plighted  bride. 
Hurrah  ! 

"  And  I  to  thee,  by  Heaven, 
My  light  steel  life  have  given: 
When  shall  the  knot  be  tied? 
When  wilt  thou  take  thy  bride  ? " 
Hurrah ! 

1  At  the  "  Hurrah  !  "  there  is  a  clattering  of  swords. 


SWORD  SONG. 


The  trumpet's  solemn  warning 
Shall  hail  the  bridal  morning. 
When  cannon-thunders  wake, 
Then  my  true  love  I  take. 
Hurrah  ! 

"  O  blessed,  blessed  meeting  ! 
My  heart  is  wildly  beating : 
Come,  bridegroom,  come  for  me 
My  garland  waiteth  thee." 
Hurrah  ! 

Why  in  the  scabbard  rattle, 
So  wild,  so  fierce  for  battle? 
What  means  this  restless  glow  1 
My  sword,  why  clatter  so  ? 
Hurrah  ! 

"  Well  may  thy  prisoner  rattle ; 
My  spirit  yearns  for  battle  : 
Rider,  'tis  war's  wild  glow 
That  makes  me  tremble  so." 
Hurrah ! 

Stay  in  thy  chamber  near, 
My  love :  what  wilt  thou  here  ? 
Still  in  thy  chamber  bide  : 
Soon,  soon  I  take  my  bride. 
Hurrah  ! 

"  Let  me  not  longer  wait : 
Love's  garden  blooms  in  state, 

G2 


KORNER. 


With  roses  bloody-red, 
And  many  a  bright  death-bed." 
Hurrah ! 

Now,  then,  come  forth,  my  bride! 
Come  forth,  thou  rider's  pride ! 
Come  out,  my  good  sword,  come! 
Forth  to  thy  father's  home  ! 
Hurrah  ! 

"  O,  in  the  field  to  prance 
The  glorious  wedding  dance ! 
How,  in  the  sun's  bright  beams. 
Bride-like  the  clear  steel  gleams!" 
Hurrah ! 

Then  forward,  valiant  fighters  ! 
And  forward,  German  riders! 
And,  when  the  heart  grows  cold, 
Let  each  his  love  enfold. 
Hurrah  ! 

Once  on  the  left  it  hung, 
And  stolen  glances  flung  ; 
Now  clearly  on  your  right 
Doth  God  each  fond  bride  plight. 
Hurrah  ! 

Then  let  your  hot  lips  feel 
That  virgin  cheek  of  steel ; 
One  kiss — and  woe  betide 
Him  who  forsakes  the  bride. 
Hurrah ! 


SWORD  SONG. 


Now  let  the  loved  one  sing; 
Now  let  the  clear  blade  ring, 
Till  the  bright  sparks  shall  fly, 
Heralds  of  victory ! 

Hurrah  ! 

For,  hark  !  the  trumpet's  warning 
Proclaims  the  marriage  morning; 
It  dawns  in  festal  pride ; 
Hurrah,  thou  Iron  Bride  ! 
Hurrah  ! 


80 


KÖRNER. 


CRADLE  SONG. 

On  thy  mother's  bosom  gently  rest  thee, 
Sweetest  babe ;  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 

Calmly  dream  ;  nor  care  nor  grief  molest  thee ; 
That  soft  breast  is  all  the  world  to  thee. 

Joyous  hours  !  ah,  still  fond  memory,  dreaming, 
Through  your  blissful  scenes  delights  to  rove ; 

O'er  life's  ocean-waste,  still  dimly  beaming, 
Shines  the  star-light  of  a  mother's  love. 

Thrice,  in  this  brief  life,  to  man  'tis  given 

In  Love's  arms  so  sweetly  to  repose ; 
Thrice  on  earth  to  taste  the  joy  of  heaven,  — 

Bliss  that  from  no  earthly  fountain  flows. 

With  her  earliest  blessing  when  she  greets  him, 
See  in  smiles  the  blooming  infant  dressed  ! 

Though  the  world  with  smiles  of  welcome  meets  him, 
Love  still  holds  him  to  the  mother's  breast. 

Soon  are  dimmed  gay  childhood's  sunny  glances, 
Clouds  are  gathering  round  youth's  untried  way  ; 

Now,  once  more  fond  Love  with  smiles  advances, 
And  the  wanderer  hails  her  cheering  ray. 


CRADLE  SONG, 


Yet  the  storm-wind  smites  the  fairest  flower, 
And  the  proudest  heart  in  dust  must  lie. 

Love,  an  angel,  cheers  man's  closing  hour, 
And  in  triumph  bears  him  up  on  high. 


KÖRNER. 


THE  VILLAGE  SMITHY. 

Sheltered  well  by  friendly  mountains, 
Washed  by  clear  and  cooling  fountains, 
In  a  nook  so  still  and  green, 
Lovelier  hamlet  ne'er  was  seen. 

Overhead,  on  ridges  high, 
Old,  dark  pine-trees  hide  the  sky ; 
Down  below,  the  stream  flows  near, 
And  the  air  is  mild  and  clear. 

House  and  yard  swarm  all  day  long 
With  a  busy,  bustling  throng. 
Ever  as  the  day  comes  round, 
Rings  the  anvil's  restless  sound. 

And  the  bright  sparks  dart  and  quiver, 
And  the  steely  splinters  shiver, 
And  the  flood,  with  thunder-sound, 
Flings  the  ponderous  mill-wheel  round. 

Earthly  cares  shall  not  molest, 
In  this  vale,  my  peaceful  breast ; 
Joy  within  my  heart  shall  dwell, 
As  a  pure,  untroubled  well. 


THE   VILLAGE  SMITHY. 

Shaded  by  the  whispering  trees, 
Will  I  woo  the  dreamy  breeze  ; 
Mountain,  vale,  and  murmuring  rill, 
With  deep  peace  my  neart  shall  fill. 


KORNER. 


GOOD  NIGHT 

Good  night ! 
To  each  weary,  toil-worn  wight, 
Now  the  day  so  sweetly  closes, 
Every  aching  brow  reposes 
Peacefully  till  morning  light. 
Good  night  ! 

Home  to  rest ! 
Close  the  eye  and  calm  the  breast ; 
Stillness  through  the  streets  is  stealing, 
And  the  watchman's  horn  is  pealing, 
And  the  night  calls  softly,  "  Haste  ! 
Home  to  rest !  " 

Sweetly  sleep  ! 
Eden's  breezes  round  ye  sweep 
O'er  the  peace-forsaken  lover 
Let  the  darling  image  hover, 
As  he  lies  in  transport  deep. 
Sweetly  sleep ! 

So,  good  night ! 
Slumber  on  till  morning  licrht, 
Slumber,  till  another  morrow 
Brings  its  stores  of  joy  and  sorrow  ; 
Fearless,  in  the  Father's  sight, 
Slumber  on.    Good  night. 


TO  THE   MEMORY   OF   THEODORE   KÖRNER.  85 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THEODORE  KORNER. 


Proudly,  e'en  now,  the  young  oak  waved  on  high, 

Hung  round  with  youthful  green  full  gorgeously; 

And  calmly  graceful,  and  yet  bold  and  free, 
Reared  its  majestic  head  in  upper  sky. 

Hope  said,  "  How  great,  in  coming  days,  shall  be 
That  tree's  renown  ! "  Already,  far  or  nigh, 
No  monarch  of  the  forest  towered  so  high. 

The  trembling  leaves  murmured  melodiously 
As  love's  soft  whisper  ;  and  its  branches  rung 

As  if  the  master  of  the  tuneful  string, 
Mighty  Apollo,  there  his  lyre  had  hung. 
But,  ah  !  it  sank.    A  storm  had  bowed  its  pride  !  — 

Alas  !  untimely  snatched  in  life's  green  spring, 
My  noble  youth,  the  bard  and  hero,  died ! 

li. 

Where  sleeps  my  youth  upon  his  country's  breast? 

Show  me  the  place  where  ye  have  laid  him  down 
'Mid  his  own  music's  echoes  let  him  rest, 

And  in  the  brightness  of  his  fair  renown. 
Large  was  his  heart;  his  free  soul  heavenward  pressed ; 

Alternate  songs  and  deeds  his  brow  did  crown. 
Where  sleeps  my  youth  upon  his  country's  breast  ? 

Show  me  the  place  where  ye  have  laid  him  down. 

H 


80 


KORNER. 


"  The  youth  lies  slumbering  where  the  battle-ground 
Drank  in  the  blood  of  noble  hearts  like  rain;" 

There,  youthful  hero,  in  thine  ear  shall  sound 
A  grateful  echo  of  thy  harp's  last  strain  : 
"O  Father,  bless  thou  me!"1  shall  ring  again; 

That  blessing  thou  in  calmer  world  hast  found. 

in. 

Ye  who  so  keenly  mourn  the  loved  one's  death, 

Go  with  me  to  the  mound  that  marks  his  grave, 
And  breathe  awhile  the  consecrated  breath 

Of  the  old  oak  whose  boughs  high  o'er  him  wave. 

Sad  Friendship  there  hath  laid  the  young  and  brave; 
Her  hand  shall  guide  us  thither.    Hark  !  she  saith, 
"  Beneath  the  hallowed  oak's  cool,  peaceful  breath 

These  hands  had  dug  the  hero's  silent  grave ; 
Yet  were  the  dear  remains  forbid  to  rest 
Where  lip  to  lip  in  bloody  strife  was  pressed, 

And  ghastly  death  stares  from  the  mouldering  heap  ; 

A  statelier  tomb  that  sacred  dust  must  keep  ; 
A  German  prince  hath  spoken  :  this  new  guest, 

And  noblest,  in  a  princely  hall  shall  sleep." 

IV. 

There  rests  the  muses'  son  —  his  conflicts  o'er. 

Forget  him  not,  my  German  country,  thou. 

The  wreath  that  twined  around  his  youthful  brow 
May  deck  his  urn  —  but  him,  alas  !  no  more. 
Dost  ask,  thou  herdsmaid,  for  those  songs  of  yore? 

Though  fled  his  form,  his  soul  is  with  us  now. 

1  Quoted  from  Korneas  "  Prayer  during  Battle." 


TO  THE   MEMORY   OF  THEODORE  KÖRNER. 


And  ye  who  mourn  the  hero  gone  before, 

Here  on  his  grave  renew  the  patriot  vow ; 
Through  Freedom's  holy  struggle  he  hath  made, 

Ye  noble  German  sons,  his  heavenward  way. 

Feel  what  he  felt,  while  bending  o'er  his  clay  ; 
Thus  honor  him,  while  in  the  green-arched  shade 
Sweet  choirs  of  nightingales,  through  grove  and  glad 

Awake  the  memory  of  his  kindling  lay. 


TlEDUE. 


KÖRNER. 


KÖRNER'S  FUNERAL,  l 
THE  TUNE  OF  PERGOLESI,  "  STABAT  MATER  DOLOROSA.' 

'Mid  the  sound  of  trump  and  drum, 
Angels  called,  "  Come,  Körner,  come !  " 

And  the  hero's  heart  must  break. 
Break,  ye  hearts,  ye  eyes,  with  sorrow  ; 
Faith's  glad  light  a  radiant  morrow 

From  this  night  of  tears  shall  wake. 

Germany,  thy  mourning  mother, 
Feels  each  wound  of  thine,  O  brother  ; 

Bleeds  with  thee,  and  triumphs  now. 
Throned  a  king,  our  souls  behold  thee  : 
Bloody-purple  robes  enfold  thee, 

Crowned  with  holy  thorns  thy  brow. 

Tuneless  now  the  strings  are  lying ; 
Yet  on  every  tongue,  undying, 

In  each  bosom  lives  the  lay. 
Life's  dim  lamp  alone  is  shrouded, 
While  the  star  of  love,  unclouded, 

Blazes  to  a  flood  of  day. 


1  See  Note  H. 


körner's  funeral.  89 

Jesus,  God's  pure  love,  inspire 
This  our  nation  ;  one  desire, 

Glowing,  through  all  bosoms  breathe ; 
And  to  us,  when  we  have  striven 
Like  our  brother,  be  there  given 

Crown  of  thorns  and  starry  wreath. 

Charles  Follen. 


H  2 


BURGER. 


BÜRGER. 


LENORA. 

From  heavy  dreams  Lenora  rose 

With  morning's  first,  faint  ray  : 
"  O  William,  art  thou  false  —  or  dead  ? 

How  long  wilt  thou  delay  ?  " 
He,  with  King  Frederick's  knightly  train, 
Had  hied  to  distant  battle  plain, 

And  not  a  line  had  come  to  tell 

If  yet  he  were  alive  and  well. 

And  now  were  king  and  queen  full  fain 

The  weary  strife  to  cease, 
Subdued  at  length  their  mutual  wrath, 

And  joined  their  hands  in  peace  ; 
Then  rose  the  song,  and  clash,  and  clang, 
And  kettle-drums  and  trumpets  rang, 

As,  decked  with  garlands  green  and  gay, 

Each  host  pursued  its  homeward  way. 

And  here  and  there,  and  every  where, 

Along  each  road  and  route, 
To  meet  them  came  both  young  and  old, 

With  song  and  merry  shout. 


BÜRGER. 


"Thank  God!  "  both  child  and  mother  cried, 
And  "  Welcome!"  many  a  happy  bride. 
But,  ah,  one  heart  shared  not  the  bliss 
Of  fond  embrace  and  thrilling  kiss. 

From  rank  to  rank  Lenora  flew ; 

She  called  each  knight  by  name, 
And  asked  for  William;  bat,  alas! 

No  answering  tidings  came. 
Then,  when  that  host  had  all  gone  by, 
She  beat  her  breast  in  agony, 

And  madly  tore  her  raven  hair, 

And  prostrate  fell  in  wild  despair. 

The  mother  hastened  to  her  child  : 

"Ah,  God  have  mercy  now  ! 
My  darling  child,  what  aileth  thee  ?  " 

And  kissed  her  marble  brow. 
"  O  mother,  mother,  all  is  o'er ; 
No  peace,  no  hope  forever  more; 

No  pity  dwells  with  God  on  high  ; 

Woe's  me,  woe's  me ;  O  misery  !  " 

"  Help,  God  of  grace,  look  down  and  help  ! 

Child,  breathe  a  fervent  prayer  ; 
What  God  has  done  must  work  for  good  ; 

God  hears,  and  God  will  spare." 
"  O  mother,  mother  —  idle  thought! 
No  good  for  me  God's  will  hath  wrought ; 

Vain  have  been  all  my  prayers  —  all  vain  ; 

I  dare  not  look  to  Heaven  again  ! " 


LENORA. 


"  Help,  God  of  grace  !    No  child  shall  seek 

The  Father's  face  in  vain  , 
Come,  and  the  blessed  sacrament 

Shall  surely  soothe  thy  pain." 
"  O  mother,  mother,  pangs  like  these 
No  sacrament  hath  power  to  ease  ; 

No  sacrament  can  pierce  death's  gloom, 

And  wake  the  tenant  of  the  tomb !  " 

"  Child,  hear  me  ;  say,  the  false  one  now, 

In  far  Hungarian  land, 
Abjures  his  holy  faith,  and  plights 

Some  Paynim  maid  his  hand? 
Well,  let  it  go,  child,  let  it  go ; 
'Twill  profit  him  no  more  below ; 

And,  O,  when  soul  and  body  part, 

What  flames  shall  burn  his  perjured  heart ! 

"  O  mother,  mother,  lost  is  lost, 

And  gone  forever  gone ; 
Death,  death  is  now  my  only  gain  ; 

O,  had  I  ne'er  been  born ! 
Be  quenched,  forever  quenched,  my  light ! 
Die,  die  in  horror's  gloomiest  night ! 

No  pity  dwells  with  God  on  high  ; 

Woe's  me,  woe's  me ;  O  misery  !  " 

"  Help,  God  of  grace  !    O,  enter  not 

In  judgment  with  thy  child  ! 
Alas  !  she  knows  not  what  she  says; 

Forgive  whom  woe  makes  wild. 


BURGER. 


Ah,  child,  forget  thine  earthly  woes, 
And  think  on  God  and  heaven's  repose ; 
Then  shall  thy  soul,  life's  sorrows  passed, 
The  bridegroom  meet  in  bliss  at  last." 

"  O  mother,  mother,  what  is  bliss  ? 

O  mother,  what  is  hell  1 
With  him,  with  him  alone,  is  bliss; 

Without  my  William,  hell. 
Be  quenched,  forever  quenched,  my  light! 
Die,  die  in  horror's  gloomiest  night ! 

While  he  is  not,  no  peace  below ; 

Without  him,  heaven  is  endless  woe  !  " 

Thus  raged  the  madness  of  despair, 
And  smote  and  scorched  her  brain. 

She  ceased  not  still  God's  prov  idence 
And  justice  to  arraign  ; 

She  wrung  her  hands  and  beat  her  breast, 

Until  the  sun  had  gone  to  rest, 

Till  all  the  stars  came  out  on  high, 
And  twinkled  in  the  vaulted  sky. 

When,  hark  !  a  distant  trap,  trap,  trap, 

Like  horse's  hoofs,  did  sound ; 
And  soon  an  iron-mailed  knight 

Sprang  clattering  to  the  ground. 
And  hark  !  and  hark  !  a  gentle  ring 
Came  swiftly,  softly,  —  kling,  ling,  ling; 

Then  through  the  door,  in  accents  clear, 

These  words  did  greet  Lenora's  ear :  — 


LENORA. 


"  Holla!  holla  !  love,  ope  to  me; 

Dost  wake,  my  child,  or  sleep? 
And  what  are  now  thy  thoughts  of  me  1 

And  dost  thou  smile,  or  weep  ?  " 
"  Ah,  William,  thou  1 .  . . .  so  late  at  night  ?  .  . .  . 
I've  wept  and  watched  through  gloom  and  light 

And,  ah,  what  depths  of  woe  I've  known! 

Whence  com'st  thou  now  thus  late  and  lone  1 

"  At  midnight  hour  alone  we  ride  : 

From  Hungary  I  come. 
I  saddled  late,  and  now,  my  bride, 

Will  bear  thee  to  thy  home." 
"  Ah,  William,  first  come  in,  till  morn  ; 
The  wild  wind  whistles  through  the  thorn. 

Come  quickly  in,  my  love ;  these  arms 

Shall  fold  thee  safe  from  midnight  harms." 

"  Let  the  wind  whistle  through  the  thorn  ; 

Child,  what  have  I  to  fear  ? 
Loud  snorts  the  steed ;  the  spur  rings  shrill  ; 

I  may  not  tarry  here. 
Come,  robe  thyself,  and  mount  with  speed 
Behind  me  on  my  coal-black  steed  : 

And  when  a  hundred  miles  are  passed, 

We  reach  the  bridal  bed  at  last." 

"  Ah,  must  I  ride  a  hundred  miles 

To  bridal  bed  this  day? 
And,  hark  !  e'en  now  the  booming  clock  — 

Eleven  !  —  night  wears  away." 


BÜRGER. 

'  See  here  !  see  here  !  the  moon  shines  bright : 

We  and  the  dead  ride  swift  by  night : 
Thou,  an  thou  mount  without  delay, 
Shalt  see  thy  marriage  bed  to-day  !  " 

"  Where  is  thy  chamber,  say,  my  love  ? 

And  where  thy  marriage  bed?  " 
"  Far,  far  from  here !  .  .  .  .  still,  small,  and  cool  — 

Six  planks,  with  foot  and  head." 
"  Hast  room  for  me  ? "...  .  "  For  thee  and  me ; 
Corne,  robe  thee,  mount,  and  soon  thou'lt  see ; 

The  guests  stand  waiting  for  the  bride ; 

The  chamber  door  stands  open  wide." 

Up  rose  the  maid,  and  donned  her  robes, 

And  on  the  courser  sprung, 
And  round  the  darling  rider's  form 

Her  lily  arms  she  flung. 
And  hurry  ho  !  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
Hop,  hop,  the  gallop  swept  amain, 

Till  steed  and  rider  panting  blew, 

And  dust-clouds,  sparks,  and  pebbles,  flew. 

And  on  the  right  and  on  the  left 

How  fast  the  landscape  fled  ! 
How  all  the  thundering  bridges  shook 

Beneath  the  courser's  tread  ! 
"  Dost  quake,  my  love?  ....  The  moon  shines  bright ! 
Hurrah  !  the  dead  ride  swift  by  night ! 

Dost  fear  the  dead,  my  love,  my  own?  " 

"  Ah  no !  .  .  .  .  yet  leave  the  dead  alone." 


LENORA. 


99 


What  clang  was  that,  and  doleful  song, 

And  rush  of  raven's  wing?  .... 
Hark  !  hark  !  the  knell  of  funeral  bell  ! 

The  bending  mourners  sing, 
"  Bear  home  the  dead  !  "  and  soon  appear 
The  shrouded  corpse  and  sable  bier  ; 

Like  croak  of  frogs  in  marshy  plain, 

Swelled  on  the  breeze  that  dismal  strain. 

"  When  midnight's  passed,  bear  home  the  dead, 

With  sad,  sepulchral  strain  ; 
I'm  bearing  home  my  youthful  bride ; 

Haste  —  join  the  bridal  train  ! 
Come,  sexton,  bring  thy  choir  along, 
And  croak  for  me  the  bridal  song ; 

Come,  priest,  and  be  thy  blessing  said, 

Or  ere  we  seek  the  marriage  bed  !  " 

Ceased  clang  and  song  ....  swift  fled  the  bier  . . . 

Obedient  to  his  call, 
Hard  at  the  horse's  heels  that  throng 

Came  hurrying  one  and  all ; 
And  onward,  on,  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
Hop,  hop,  the  gallop  swept  amain, 

Till  horse  and  rider  panting  blew, 

And  dust-clouds,  sparks,  and  pebbles,  flew. 

On  either  hand —  right,  left  —  how  swift 

Trees,  hedges,  mountains  fled ! 
How  vanished  cities,  towns,  and  farms, 

As  onward  still  they  sped  ! 


100 


BÜRGER. 


"  Dost  quake,  my  love? ....  The  moon  shines  bright ! 
Hurrah !  the  dead  ride  swift  by  night  ! 

Dost  fear  the  dead,  my  love,  my  own  ?  " 

"  Ah,  leave  the  dead  to  rest,  alone  !  '" 

See  !  see  !  beneath  yon  gallows-tree, 

Along  the  moonlit  ground, 
Half  brought  to  view,  an  airy  crew 

Go  dancing  round  and  round. 
"  Ha,  merry  crew  !  come,  haste  along, 
And  follow  in  the  marriage  throng  ! 

I  take  my  bride  ere  morn,  and  ye 

Shall  dance  the  wedding  dance  for  me." 

And  hurry,  skurry,  close  behind 

That  pack  came  brustling  fast : 
So  rattles  through  the  hazel-bush 

November's  fitful  blast. 
And  onward  still,  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
Hop,  hop,  the  gallop  dashed  amain, 

Till  horse  and  rider  panting  blew, 

And  dust-clouds,  sparks,  and  pebbles,  fiew. 

How  fast  the  land  on  either  hand 

Beneath  the  moon  swept  by  ! 
How  swiftly  fled,  high  over  head 

The  stars  along  the  sky  ! 
"  Dost  quake,  my  love  ?  . . .  .  The  moon  shines  bright  ! 
Hurrah  !  the  dead  ride  swift  by  night ! 

Dost  fear  the  dead,  my  love,  my  own  ?  " 

"  Ah,  leave  the  dead  to  rest,  alone  !  " 


LENORA. 


"  Speed,  speed,  my  steed !    Methinks  e'en  now 

The  early  cock  doth  crow. 
Speed  on  !  I  scent  the  morning  air  ; 

Speed,  speed  !  the  sand  runs  low  ! 
'Tis  done  —  'tis  done —  our  journey's  passed  ; 
The  bridal  bed  appears  at.  last. 

Hurrah  !  how  swiftly  ride  the  dead  ! 

It  is,  it  is  the  bridal  bed  !".... 

And,  lo  !  an  iron-grated  gate 

Full  in  their  path-way  frowned  ; 
He  snapped  his  switch,  and  lock  and  bolt 

Sprang  back  with  thunder-sound. 
The  clanking  gates,  wide-opening,  led 
O'er  crowded  dwellings  of  the  dead, 

Where  tomb-stones,  thickly  scattered  round, 

Gleamed  pale  along  the  moonlit  ground. 

Ha,  see  !  ha,  see  !  whoo  !  whoo  !  what  tongue 

Can  such  dread  wonder  tell  ! 
The  rider's  collar,  piece  by  piece, 

Like  shrivelled  tinder  fell  ; 
His  head  a  sightless  skull  became, 
A  ghastly  skeleton  his  frame ; 

In  his  right  hand  a  scythe  he  swung, 

And  in  his  left  an  hour-glass  hung. 

High  pranced  the  steed,  and  snorted  wild, 

And,  snorting,  flamed  outright; 
And,  whee  !  the  solid  ground  beneath 

Fled  from  the  maiden's  sight. 


BURGER. 


Howls,  howls  were  heard  through  upper  air  ; 

Below,  deep  moanings  of  despair: 

Her  quaking  heart,  'twixt  death  and  life, 
Seemed  wrestling  in  an  awful  strife. 

Now  round  and  round,  o'er  moonlit  ground, 

The  ghastly  spectre-train 
Full  well  did  dance  their  fetter-dance, 

And  howled  this  solemn  strain,  — 
"  Forbear!  forbear  !  Though  heart  be  riven, 
Contend  not  with  the  God  of  heaven  ! 

Thou  hast  laid  down  this  earthly  clod  ; 

Now  may  the  soul  find  peace  with  God  ! " 


THE   EMPEROR  AND   THE  ABBOT. 


103 


THE  EMPEROR  AND  THE  ABBOT. 

I'll  tell  you  a  story,  —  'tis  somewhat  facetious  :  — 
There  once  was  an  emperor,  and  he  was  malicious; 
There  was  also  an  abbot,  right  stately  to  see  ; 
But,  pity  !  his  shepherd  was  wiser  than  he. 

Blow  hot  or  blow  chilly,  the  emperor  was  sour  ; 
Slept  often  in  armor  through  night-fog  and  shower  ; 
Ate  his  crust  without  water  —  but  that's  not  the  worst; 
He  oftentimes  suffered  both  hunger  and  thirst. 

The  little  pope  knew  how  to  nurse  himself  better ; 
He  ate  well,  he  slept  well,  and  daily  grew  fatter. 
His  face  —  like  the  rising  full  moon  was  its  glow  ; 
His  belly  —  three  men  could  not  span  it,  I  know. 

So  the  emperor  hated  the  little  pope  badly. 
One  day,  when  the  dog-star  was  raging  most  madly, 
As  the  little  pope  walked  through  a  grove  that  was  nigh, 
In  the  midst  of  his  troopers  the  emperor  rode  by. 

"Ho,  ho!"  thought  the  emperor;  "good  luck's  in  the 
meeting !  " 

With  a  bitter-sweet  smile,  then,  the  little  pope  greeting, 
"  How  fare,  man  of  God  1    But  I  see,  by  your  case, 
That  praying  and  fasting  sit  well  on  your  grace. 


104 


BÜRGER. 


"  Methinks,  at  the  same  time,  you're  plagued  with  much 
leisure ; 

Tf  I  give  you  some  work,  now,  you'll  count  it  a  pleasure. 
They  say  you're  the  cunningest  man  that  they  know  ; 
They  tell  me,  you  almost  can  hear  the  grass  grow. 

"  So  now,  then,  that  pastime  you  may  not  be  lacking, 
Let  your  pair  of  tough  jaws  these  three  nice  nuts  be 
cracking. 

Three  questions  I  give  :  when  three  moons  are  gone  by, 
In  my  audience-chamber  I'll  hear  your  reply. 

"  And  first :  when  on  high,  with  the  canopy  o'er  me, 
I  sit  on  my  throne,  with  my  nobles  before  me, 
Then  thou,  like  a  faithful  mint-warden  shalt  say, 
How  much,  to  a  penny,  I'm  worth  at  that  day. 

"  You'll  find  it  mere  child's  play  to  answer  the  second  : 
How  long  (every  hour  and  minute  being  reckoned, 
And  not  one  single  minute  too  much)  will  it  take 
Round  the  world,  upon  horseback,  my  journey  to  make  ? 

"  And  then,  for  the  third,  O  thou  prince  of  a  prelate, 
I  shall  ask  you  my  thought ;  to  a  hair  thou  shalt  tell  it. 
And  then  will  I  freely  confess  it  to  thee ; 
But  no  tittle  of  truth  in  the  thought  must  there  be. 

"  And  if  the  three  answers  you  fail  to  discover, 
Your  rule  here,  as  abbot,  that  moment  is  over ; 
On  the  back  of  an  ass  you  shall  ride  through  the  land, 
Instead  of  a  bridle,  the  tail  in  your  hand." 


tue  emperor  and  tjie  abbot. 


105 


Then  off  rode  the  emperor,  nigh  bursting  with  laughter  ; 
The  little  pope,  muttering  and  cursing,  looked  after. 
And  never  poor  culprit  such  agony  felt, 
When  before  the  high  penal  tribunal  he  knelt. 

To  colleges,  one,  two,  three,  four,  he  propounded 
His  questions  ;  one,  two,  three,  four  faculties  sounded ; 
Of  fees,  Heaven  knows,  he  paid  more  than  enough  : 
But  no  doctor  could  answer  three  questions  so  tough. 

And  now  his  poor  heart,  with  its  fluttering  and  beating, 
Helped  the  hours  grow  to  days,  days  to  weeks  —  O, 

how  fleeting  ! 
Months  dwindled  to  days  ;  as  the  last  hurried  by, 
The  world  looked  now  yellow,  now  green  to  his  eye. 

And  now,  a  pale,  hollow-cheeked  Werther,  he  paces 
Through  forest  and  field  in  the  loneliest  places; 
And  there,  in  a  wooded  and  rocky  retreat, 
Hans  Bendix,  his  shepherd,  he  chances  to  meet. 

"  My  lord,"  said  Hans  Bendix,  "  what  can  so  distress 
you  ? 

You're  passing  away  like  a  shadow,  Lord  bless  you  ! 
Saint  Mary  and  Joseph  !  how  hollow  you  grow  ! 
Sweet  master,  you've  met  some  ill  treatment,  I  know." 

"  Alas  !  good  Hans  Bendix,  you  have  it.    Believe  me, 
A  sad  piece  of  mischief  the  emperor  will  weave  me. 
Between  my  two  jaws  three  such  nuts  he  has  packed, 
As  even  Beelzebub  scarce  could  have  cracked. 


10(3 


BURGER. 


"  And  first :  when  on  high,  with  his  canopy  o'er  him, 
He  sits  on  his  throne,  with  his  nobles  before  him, 
Then  I,  like  a  faithful  mint-warden,  must  say, 
How  much,  to  a  farthing,  he's  worth  at  that  day. 

"  He  calls  it  mere  child's  play  to  answer  the  second  : 
How  long  (every  hour  and  minute  being  reckoned, 
And  never  a  minute  too  much)  it  would  take 
Round  the  world,  upon  horseback,  his  journey  to  make. 

"And  then,  for  the  third,  —  ah  me  !  wretch  of  a  prel- 
ate !  — 

He  will  ask  me  his  thought  :  to  a  hair  I  must  tell  it 

And  then  will  he  freely  confess  it  to  me  ; 

But  no  tittle  of  truth  in  the  thought  must  there  be. 

"  And  if  the  three  answers  I  fail  to  discover, 
My  rule  here,  as  abbot,  that  moment  is  over  ; 
He'll  make  me  to  ride  on  an  ass  through  the  land, 
Instead  of  a  bridle,  the  tail  in  my  hand." 

"That  all?"  loudly  laughing,  Hans  Bendix  made  an- 
swer ; 

"  Pray  make  yourself  easy  ;  I've  thought  of  a  plan,  sir. 
Just  lend  me  your  cap,  and  your  cross,  and  your  dress  ; 
We'll  shortly  dispose  of  these  questions,  I  guess. 

"  My  head  is  not  stuffed  with  your  scraps  of  dog-Latin ; 
Yet  I  know  how  to  get  the  dog  out  and  the  cat  in. 
What  you  rich  ones  can't  buy,  and  you  learned  ones 
scorn, 

I  learned  of  my  mother  before  I  was  born." 


THE   EMPEROR   AND  THE  ABBOT. 


107 


Up  and  down,  like  a  kid,  the  pleased  abbot  went  skip- 
ping. 

With  cap,  cross,  and  mantle,  and  collar  equipping, 

Hans  Bendix  stood  stately  in  abbot's  array, 

And  straight  to  the  emperor's  court  took  his  way. 

And  there  sat  the  emperor,  the  canopy  o'er  him, 
With  crown  and  with  sceptre,  his  nobles  before  him  : 
"  Like  a  faithful  mint-warden,  Sir  Abbot,  now  say 
How  much  I  am  worth,  to  a  farthing,  this  day." 

"  For  thirty  good  florins  was  Christ  sold,  I'm  thinking; 
So  'spite  all  your  begging,  and  bragging,  and  prinking, 
For  you  nine  and  twenty  were  ample,  I  guess, 
For  you  must  be  surely  worth  one  florin  less." 

"  Hum,  well !  "  said  the  emperor;  "  a  plausible  reason, 
And  may,  to  our  pride,  be  a  word  spoke  in  season. 
I  never,  by  this  high,  imperial  hat, 
Suspected  I  ivas  quite  so  dog-cheap  as  that. 

"  But,  come;  you  will  find  it  mere  child's  play  —  the 
second  : 

How  long  (every  hour  and  minute  being  reckoned, 

And  never  a  minute  too  much)  will  it  take 

Round  the  world,  upon  horseback,  my  journey  to  make?  " 

"  If  you  saddle  up  early,  and  ride  with  the  sun,  sir, 
And  at  the  same  Tempo  jog  steadily  on,  sir, 
I'll  bet  you  my  cross,  and  my  cap  here,  beside, 
In  twenty-four  hours  you'll  finish  your  ride." 


103 


RURGER. 


"  Ha,  ha  !  "  laughed  the  emperor ;  "  a  hostler  right  clever ; 
You  fodder  your  horses  with  '  if  and  '  however.' 
The  man  who  says  '  if  and  '  however '  can  fold 
His  arms  up,  and  see  his  chopped  straw  become  gold. 

"  But  now  for  the  third  :  on  what's  passed  do  not  plume 
thee ; 

For,  failing  of  this,  to  the  ass  I  still  doom  thee. 

What  think  I  that's  false,  now?  Quick,  out  let  it  come; 

But  keep  me  thy  '  ifs  '  and  '  howevers '  at  home." 

"  You're  thinking  I'm  abbot  of  St.  Gall,  I  reckon." 
"  Quite  right !  and  in  that,  sure,  I  have  not  mistaken." 
"  Your  pardon,  Sir  Emperor;  you'd  better  give  o'er; 
For  know,  i  am  Bendix,  his  shepherd;  no  more." 

"  What !  zounds,  man  !    You  are  not  the  abbot  of  St. 

Gall,  then?" 
Cried  wildly  the  emperor,  as  if  he  had  fallen 
From  heaven,  with  amazement  and  joy  in  his  stare: 
"Well  then,  from  this  time  forth  you  shall  be,  I  swear. 

"  With  ring  and  with  staff  I  hereby  do  invest  thee  ; 
Thy  master  may  mount  on  the  ass,  and  a  jest  be ; 
I'll  teach  him  henceforward  quid  juris  to  know; 
For  he  that  will  harvest  has  also  to  sow." 

"  With  leave,  my   lord  emperor,   again  you've  mis- 
taken ; 

Don't  hurry;  I  neither  can  read,  write,  nor  reckon; 
Of  Latin,  not  one  dying  word  do  I  know; 
Old  Jack  cannot  pick  up  what  Jacky  lets  go." 


THE   EMPEROR  AND  THE  ABBOT. 


109 


"Ah,  worthy  Hans  Bendix,  'tis  truly  a  pity; 
Name  some  other  favor,  then,  I  do  entreat  thee  ; 
Thy  excellent  joke  has  been  pleasant  to  me ; 
I  will  that  my  thanks  shall  give  pleasure  to  thee." 

"  Sir  Emperor,  I've  few  wants ;  but  yet  if,  in  earnest, 
To  show  me  some  mark  of  thy  grace  thou  so  yearnest, 
Now,  then,  I  will  ask,  as  my  rightful  reward, 
That  your  highness  do  pardon  my  reverend  lord." 

"  Ha,  bravo !  full  plainly  I  see,  fellow  fairest, 
Both  thy  head  and  thy  heart  in  the  right  place  thou 
wearest. 

Thy  master  a  pardon  we  grant  full  and  free, 
And,  into  the  bargain,  a  living  to  thee  : 

" '  To  the  abbot  of  St.  Gall,  with  much  hearty  com- 
mending : 

Hans  Bendix  no  longer  his  sheep  shall  be  tending. 

The  abbot  shall  give  him,  we  straitly  decree, 

His  maintenance  gratis,  till  death  sets  him  free.'  " 


K 


BURGER. 


THE  WIVES  OF  WE  INS  BERG. 

Which  way  to  Weinsberg?  neighbor,  say! 

'Tis,  sure,  a  famous  city ; 
It  must  have  cradled,  in  its  day, 
Full  many  a  maid  of  noble  clay, 

And  matrons,  wise  and  witty ; 
And  if  ever  marriage  should  happen  to  me, 
A  Weinsberg  dame  my  wife  shall  be. 

King  Conrad  once,  historians  say, 

Fell  out  with  this  good  city  ; 
So  down  he  came,  one  luckless  day,  — 
Horse,  foot,  dragoons,  —  in  stern  array,  — 

And  cannon  —  more's  the  pity  ! 
Around  the  walls  the  artillery  roared, 
And  bursting  bombs  their  fury  poured. 

But  nought  the  little  town  could  scare  ; 

Then,  red  with  indignation, 
He  bade  the  herald  straight  repair 
Up  to  the  gates,  and  thunder  there 

The  following  proclamation  : 
"  Rascals  !  when  I  your  town  do  take, 
No  living  thing  shall  save  its  neck  !  " 


,  TIf E    WIVES   OF  WEINSBERG. 


Ill 


Now,  when  the  herald's  trumpet  sent 

These  tidings  through  the  city, 
To  every  house  a  death-knell  went; 
Such  murder-cries  the  hot  air  rent 

Might  move  the  stones  to  pity. 
Then  bread  grew  dear,  but  good  advice 
Could  not  be  had  for  any  price. 

Then,  "  Woe  is  me  !  "  "  O  misery  !  " 

What  shrieks  of  lamentation  ! 
And  "  Kyrie  Eleison  !  "  cried 
The  pastors,  and  the  flock  replied, 

"  Lord,  save  us  from  starvation  !  " 
"O,  woe  is  me,  poor  Corydon  ! 
My  neck  —  my  neck  !  I'm  gone  —  I'm  gone  !  " 

Yet  oft,  when  counsel,  deed,  and  prayer, 

Had  all  proved  unavailing, 
When  hope  hung  trembling  on  a  hair, 
How  oft  has  woman's  wit  been  there!  — 

A  refuge  never  failing ; 
For  woman's  wit  and  Papal  fraud, 
Of  olden  time,  were  famed  abroad. 

A  youthful  dame,  —  praised  be  her  name  ! 

Last  night  had  seen  her  plighted,  — 
Whether  in  waking  hour  or  dream, 
Conceived  a  rare  and  novel  scheme, 

Which  all  the  town  delighted; 
Which  you,  if  you  think  otherwise, 
Have  leave  to  laugh  at  and  despise. 


112 


BURGER. 


At  midnight  hour,  when  culverin, 

And  gun,  and  bomb,  were  sleeping, 
Before  the  camp,  with  mournful  mien, 
The  loveliest  embassy  were  seen 
All  kneeling  low  and  weeping. 
So  sweetly,  plaintively  they  prayed, 
But  no  reply  save  this  was  made  :  — 

"  The  women  have  free  leave  to  go, 
Each  with  her  choicest  treasure; 
But  let  the  knaves,  their  husbands,  know, 
That  unto  them  the  king  will  show 

The  weight  of  his  displeasure." 
With  these  sad  terms  the  lovely  train 
Stole  weeping  from  the  camp  again. 

But,  when  the  morning  gilt  the  sky, 
What  happened?   Give  attention. 

The  city  gates  wide  open  fly, 

And  all  the  wives  come  trudging  by, 
Each  bearing — need  I  mention?  — 

Her  own  dear  husband  on  her  back, 

All  snugly  seated  in  a  sack ! 

Full  many  a  sprig  of  court,  the  joke 

Not  relishing,  protested, 
And  urged  the  king;  but  Conrad  spoke  : 
"  A  monarch's  Word  must  not  be  broke  !  " 

And  there  the  matter  rested. 
"  Bravo  !  "  he  cried,  "  Ha,  ha !  Bravo  ! 
Our  lady  guessed  it  would  be  so." 


THE   WIVES  OF  WEINSBERG. 


113 


He  pardoned  all,  and  gave  a  ball, 

That  night,  at  royal  quarters. 
The  fiddles  squeaked,  the  trumpets  blew, 
And  up  and  down  the  dancers  flew, 

Court  sprigs  with  city  daughters. 
The  mayor's  wife —  O  rarest  sight !  — 
Danced  with  the  shoemaker  that  night ! 

Ah,  where  is  Weinsberg,  sir,  I  pray? 

'Tis,  sure,  a  famous  city ; 
Tt  must  have  cradled,  in  its  day, 
Full  many  a  maid  of  noble  clay, 

And  matrons,  wise  and  witty ; 
And  if  ever  marriage  should  happen  to  me, 
A  Weinsberg  dame  my  wife  shall  be. 


J* 


114 


BÜRGER. 


NEW  ZEALANDER'S  BATTLE-SOXG. 

Hallo,  ye  my  fellows  !  arise  and  advance  ! 
See  the  white-crested  waves,  how  they  stamp  and  they 
dance 

High  over  the  reef  there  with  anger  and  might ! 
So  wildly  we  dance  to  the  bloody-red  fight. 

Then  gather  !  now  gather !  come,  gather,  ye  all  ! 
Each  thing  that  hath  limbs  and  arms,  come  at  our  call ! 
Like  reeds  on  the  moor,  when  the  whirlwind  sweeps  by, 
Our  lances  and  war-axes  darken  the  sky. 

Sharp,  sharp  as  the  tooth  of  the  sea-hound  and  shark, 
They'll  bore  ye,  they'll  split  ye.    Fly,  lance,  to  the  mark  ! 
Home,  home  to  the  heart!    And  thou,  battle-axe  grim, 
Split,  splintering  and  shivering,  through  brain-pan  and 
limb! 

To-day  we  ask  vengeance,  to-day  we  ask  blood; 
We  ask  it ;  we're  coming  to  make  our  word  good ; 
The  storm  flinches  not,  though  the  woods  choke  its  path ; 
We  ask  it;  we're  coming;  beware  of  our  wrath! 

At  home,  wives  and  children  a  hearth  for  us  lay; 
A  savory  flesh-feast  awaits  us  to-day. 
Behind  yonder  mountains  e'en  now  the  smoke  streams, 
And  the  blaze  of  the  brush-fire  crackles  and  gleams. 


A  CASUS  ANATOMICUS. 


115 


Long,  long  have  we  hungered  and  thirsted  for  you ; 
At  home  the  dogs  lurk  round  the  clean  table,  too. 
Loud-shouting,  we  eat  you  to-night,  every  one, 
Devour  you  clean  to  the  white,  ringing  bone. 

Rush,  rush,  ye  my  fellows,  rush  on  them  like  hail ! 
Soon,  soon,  shall  their  roasting  your  nostrils  regale ; 
The  fire  is  flaring ;  the  oven  is  a-glow  ! 
Heave  to,  now!  hew  through  now!  Halloha!  hallo! 


A  CASUS  ANATOMICUS 

IIarpax,  the  merchant,  died;  his  body  was  dissected; 
No  symptom  of  disease  was  any  where  detected, 
Until  they  reached  the  heart — which  to  find  they  were 
not  able ; 

But  in  its  place  they  found  —  the  multiplication  table. 


116 


BÜRGER. 


THE  POOR  POET 

A  manufacturer  of  rhymes, 
Rosy  and  plump  as  one  would  wish  to  see, 

Whose  face,  as  long  as  it  was  broad,  I  know, 

Like  the  round  disk  of  the  full  moon  did  glow, 
Once  talked  about  his  poverty, 

And  bravely  railed  at  these  hard  times. 

"  'Tis,  surely,  just  for  pastime  thus  you  speak," 

Said  some  one  standing  by ; 
"  This  precious  flesh  of  yours,  so  plump  and  sleek, 
And  this  new-risen  moon,  your  rosy  cheek, 

Sir  plaintiff,  these  against  you  testify." 

The  patient  poet  sighed  :  "  That  may  be  so ; 
But,  sirs,  this  paunch  —  God  bless  it!  "  —  here  he  drew 
His  hand  across  it,  —  "  and  this  full  moon  too, 

Were  mortgaged  to  mine  host  some  months  ago!" 


HÖLTY. 


H  Ö  L  T  Y. 


DEATH  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

She  is  no  more,  who  bade  the  May-month  hail ; 

Alas !  no  more ; 
The  songstress  who  enlivened  all  the  vale  — 

Her  songs  are  o'er ; 
She,  whose  sweet  tones,  in  golden  evening  hours, 

Rang  through  my  breast, 
When,  by  the  brook  that  murmured  'mong  the  flowers, 

I  lay  at  rest. 

How  richly  gurgled  from  her  deep,  full  throat 

The  silvery  lay ! 
Till  in  her  caves  sweet  Echo  caught  the  note, 

Far,  far  away. 
Then  was  the  hour  when  village  pipe  and  song 

Sent  up  their  sound, 
And  dancing  maidens  lightly  tripped  along 

The  moonlit  ground. 

A  youth  lay  listening  on  the  green  hill-side, 

Far  down  the  grove, 
While  on  his  rapt  face  hung  a  youthful  bride 

In  speechless  love. 


120 


HÖLTY. 


Their  hands  were  locked  oft  as  thy  silvery  strain 

Rang  through  the  vale ; 
They  heeded  not  the  merry,  dancing  train, 

Sweet  nightingale. 

They  listened  thee  till  village  bells  from  far 

Chimed  on  the  ear, 
And,  like  a  golden  fleece,  the  evening  star 

Beamed  bright  and  clear. 
Then,  in  the  cool  and  fanning  breeze  of  May, 

Homeward  they  stole, 
Full  of  sweet  thoughts,  breathed,  by  thy  tender  lay, 

Through  the  deep  soul. 


HARVEST  SONG. 


121 


HARVEST  SONG. 

Sickles  sound; 
On  the  ground 

Fast  the  ripe  ears  fall ; 
Every  maiden's  bonnet 
Has  blue  blossoms  on  it; 
Joy  is  over  all. 

Sickles  ring, 
Maidens  sing 

To  the  sickle's  sound; 
Till  the  moon  is  beaming, 
And  the  stubble  ffleaminor 
Harvest  songs  go  round. 

All  are  springing, 
All  are  singing, 

Every  lisping  thing. 
Man  and  master  meet ; 
From  one  dish  they  eat ; 
Each  is  now  a  king. 

Hans  and  Michael 
Whet  the  sickle, 
Piping  merrily. 
Now  they  mow  ;  each  maiden 
Soon  with  sheaves  is  laden, 
Busy  as  a  bee. 

L 


HÖLTY. 


Now  the  blisses, 
And  the  kisses ! 

Now  the  wit  doth  flow 
Till  the  beer  is  out ; 
Then,  with  song  and  shout, 
Home  they  go,  yo  ho  ! 


CALL  TO  JOY. 


CALL  TO  JOY 

Away  with  pouting  and  with  pining, 

So  long  as  youth  and  spring-time  bloom ! 

Why,  when  life's  morning-sun  is  shining, 
Why  should  the  brow  be  clothed  in  gloom? 

On  every  road  the  Pleasures  greet  us, 
As  through  life's  pilgrimage  we  roam  ; 

With  wreaths  of  flowers  they  come  to  meet  us, 
And  lead  us  onward  to  our  home. 

The  rivulet  purls  and  plays  as  lightly 
As  when  it  danced  to  Eden's  breeze; 

The  lovely  moon  still  beams  as  brightly 
As  when  she  shone  through  Adam's  trees. 


1IÖLTY. 


THE  OLD  FARMER'S  ADVICE  TO  HIS  SON. 

My  son,  be  honest  truth  thy  guide, 

And,  to  thy  dying  day, 
Turn  not  a  finger's  breadth  aside 

From  God's  appointed  way. 
Then  shall  thy  pilgrim-pathway  lie 

Through  meadows  sunny-green  ; 
Then  shalt  thou  look  on  death  with  eye 

Unshrinking  and  serene  ;  — 

Then  shall  the  pathway  to  thy  tomb 

By  frequent  feet  be  trod, 
And  summer  flowers,  of  sweet  perfume, 

Spring  from  the  moistened  sod ; 
For  oft  shall  children's  children,  led 

By  fond  affection's  care, 
At  evening  seek  thy  grave,  and  shed 

The  tear  of  sorrow  there. 


WINTER  SONG. 


WINTER  SONG 
IMITATED. 

Summer  joys  are  o'er; 

Flowerets  bloom  no  more; 
Wintry  winds  are  sweeping  : 
Through  the  snow-drifts  peeping 

Cheerful  evergreen 

Rarely  now  is  seen. 

Now  no  plumed  throng 
Charms  the  woods  with  song ; 

Ice-bound  trees  are  glittering ; 

Merry  snow-birds,  twittering, 
Fondly  strive  to  cheer 
Scenes  so  cold  and  drear. 

Winter,  still  I  see 
Many  charms  in  thee ; 
Love  thy  chilly  greeting, 
Snow-storms  fiercely  beating, 
And  the  dear  delights 
Of  the  long,  long  nights. 


126 


HOLTY. 


ELEGY  AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  MY  FATHER. 

Blessed  are  they  who  slumber  in  the  Lord; 

Thou,  too,  O  my  father,  thou  art  blest ; 
Angels  came  to  crown  thee ;  at  their  word 

Thou  hast  gone  to  share  the  heavenly  rest. 

Roaming  through  the  boundless,  starry  sky, 

What  is  now  to  thee  this  earthly  clod  1 
At  a  glance  ten  thousand  suns  sweep  by, 

While  thou  gazest  on  the  face  of  God. 

In  thy  sight  the  eternal  record  lies; 

Thou  dost  drink  from  life's  immortal  wells; 
Midnight's  mazy  mist  before  thee  flies, 

And  in  heavenly  day  thy  spirit  dwells. 

Yet,  beneath  thy  dazzling  victor's-crown, 

Thou  dost  send  a  father's  look  to  me ; 
At  Jehovah's  throne  thou  fallest  down, 

And  Jehovah,  hearing,  answereth  thee. 

Father,  O,  when  life's  last  drops  are  wasting, — 

Those  dear  drops  which  God's  own  urn  hath  given, — 

When  my  soul  the  pangs  of  death  is  tasting, 
To  my  dying  bed  come  down  from  heaven ! 


ELEGY  AT  THE   GRAVE   OF  MY  FATHER.  127 

Let  thy  cooling  palm  wave  freshly  o'er  me, 

Sinking  to  the  dark  and  silent  tomb  ; 
Let  the  awful  vales  be  bright  before  me, 

Where  the  flowers  of  resurrection  bloom. 

Then  with  thine  my  soul  shall  soar  through  heaven, 
With  the  same  unfading  glory  blessed, 

For  a  home  one  star  to  us  be  given,  — 
In  the  Father's  bosom  we  shall  rest. 

Then  bloom  on,  gay  tufts  of  scented  roses ; 

O'er  his  grave  your  sweetest  fragrance  shed ; 
And,  while  here  his  sacred  dust  reposes, 

Silence,  reign  around  his  lowly  bed. 


SCHILLER. 


SCHILLER. 


THE  ENTRANCE  OF  THE  NEW  CENTURY. 
1  JAN.  1800. 

T0    *    *  * 

Noble  friend !  where  now  for  Peace,  worn-hearted, 

Where  for  Freedom,  is  a  refuge-place? 
The  old  century  has  in  storm  departed, 

And  the  new  with  carnage  starts  its  race. 

And  the  bond  of  nations  flies  asunder, 

And  the  ancient  forms  rush  to  decline; 
Not  the  ocean  hems  the  warring  thunder, 

Not  the  Nile-god  and  the  ancient  Rhine. 

Two  imperious  nations  are  contending 

For  one  empire's  universal  field ; 
Liberty  from  every  people  rending 

Thunder-bolt  and  trident  do  they  wield. 

Gold  must  be  weighed  them  from  each  country's  labor; 

And,  like  Brennus  in  barbarian  days, 
See,  the  daring  Frank  his  iron  sabre 

In  the  balances  of  justice  lays. 


132 


SCHILLER. 


The  grasping  Briton  his  trade-fleets,  like  mighty 
Arms  of  the  sea-polypus,  doth  spread  ; 

And  the  realm  of  unbound  Amphitrite 
Would  he  girdle  like  his  own  homestead. 

To  the  south  pole's  unseen  constellations 
Pierce  his  keels,  unhindered,  resting  not ; 

All  the  isles,  all  coasts  of  farthest  nations, 
Spies  he ;  —  all  but  Eden's  sacred  spot. 

Ah !  in  vain,  on  charts  of  all  earth's  order, 

May'st  thou  seek  that  bright  and  blessed  shore, 

Where  the  green  of  Freedom's  garden-border, 
Where  man's  prime  is  fresh  forevermore. 

Endless  lies  the  world  that  thine  eye  traces, 
Even  commerce  scarcely  belts  it  round, 

Yet  upon  its  all  unmeasured  spaces 
For  ten  happy  ones  is  no  room  found. 

On  the  heart's  holy  and  quiet  pinion 

Must  thou  fly  from  out  this  rough  life's  throng ; 
Freedom  lives  but  within  dream's  dominion, 

And  the  beautiful  blooms  but  in  song. 


N.  L.  F. 


RANZ  DES  VACHES. 


133 


RANZ  DES  VACHES. 
OPENING    OF    "WILLIAM  TELL." 

Fisher-boy  in  the  Boat. 

There's  a  smile  on  the  lake  —  there's  a  voice  from  the 
deep ; 

The  boy  on  the  green  shore  sank  gently  to  sleep ; 
And,  hark!  a  sweet  melody 

Steals  o'er  his  rest, 
Like  the  voices  of  angels 
In  groves  of  the  blest  ; 
And  when,  fresh  and  buoyant,  from  slumber  he  wakes, 
Lo !  the  wave  on  his  bosom  just  murmurs  and  breaks, 
And  the  billow  calls  softly  : 

"  Dear  boy,  thou  art  mine  ! 
Round  the  peace-loving  shepherd 
My  fond  arms  I  twine." 

Herdsman  on  the  Mountain. 

[variation.] 

Ye  meadows,  farewell, 
Ye  pastures,  still  shining ; 
The  summer's  declining, 
And  herdsman  must  go. 
Then  away  to  the  mountain!  —  We're  coming  again, 
When  the  call  of  the  cuckoo  is  heard  on  the  plain, 

M 


134 


SCHILLER. 


When  streamlets  murmur,  and  earth  is  gay, 
And  blossoms  and  birds  tell  of  lovely  May. 
Ye  meadows,  farewell, 
Ye  pastures,  still  shining  ; 
The  summer's  declining, 
And  herdsman  must  go. 


Alpine  Hunter  appeal's  on  an  opposite  Crag. 

[second  VARIATION. J 

'Mid  thundering  mountains,  on  tottering  bridge, 
Dreads  not  the  bold  hunter  the  perilous  ridge. 
O'er  ice-fields,  undaunted, 

He  wanders  alone, 
Where  blossoms  no  spring-time, 
Nor  green  thing  is  known. 
Beneath  him  the  clouds  in  vast  billows  roll  by, 
And  the  dwellings  of  men  are  all  hid  from  his  eye,  — 
Till  the  clouds  yawn  asunder  ; 

Then,  glittering  in  green, 
Far  down  through  the  waters 
Gay  meadows  are  seen. 


MARY  STUART  S  SONG. 


135 


MARY  STUART'S  SONG,  1 

ON  OCCASION  OF  A  TEMPORARY  RELEASE  FROM  HER  IMPRISON- 
MENT IN  FOT  HERING  AY  CASTLE. 

Freedom  is  mine  again  !    Let  me  enjoy  it ! 

O,  I'm  a  child  again  !    Be  one  with  me  ! 
And  on  the  verdant  carpet  of  morning 

Try  the  light-winged  foot  over  the  lea. 
Am  I  arisen  from  gloom  and  from  prison  ? 

Holds  me  no  longer  that  vault  of  despair? 
Let  me,  in  full,  inexhaustible  measures, 

Drink  of  the  boundless,  the  heavenly  air ! 

O,  thanks,  thanks  to  the  green  and  friendly  grove, 

That  hides  that  dismal  prison-wall  from  me ! 
I  dreamed  in  freedom's  bliss  once  more  to  rove ; 

Why  wake  me  from  the  dream  of  ecstasy  ? 
Am  I  not  bosomed  in  the  boundless  sky? 

My  sight,  unchained  and  free, 
Roams  through  unmeasured  spaces,  far  and  high. 
Those  dim,  blue,  misty  mountains,  looming  yonder, 

Mark  where  my  empire's  boundaries  lie ; 
And  these  light,  fleecy  clouds,  that  southward  wander, 

On  to  thy  pleasant  ocean,  France,  they  hie. 

1  See  Note  I. 


136 


SCHILLER. 


Clouds  that  float  over  me,  sailors  of  air, 

Might  I  but  roam  with  you,  sail  with  you  there  ! 

Greet  for  me  kindly  the  land  of  my  youth. 
A  poor,  lonely  captive,  in  chains  here  I  lie : 
O  be  my  messengers ;  yours  is  the  sky  : 
Ye  spread  your  white  wings  to  the  breeze,  and  away ; 
This  queen  has  you  not  in  her  iron  sway  ! 

#  #  #  * 

There's  a  fisherman  mooring  his  boat  to  the  shore; 

That  wretched  vessel  might  rescue  me: 

To  friendly  cities  how  soon  would  I  flee  ! 
The  poor  man  never  should  hunger  more  ; 
I'd  load  him  with  treasures  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

Good  luck  should  he  find  in  his  net,  if  he 

Would  carry  me  safely  over  the  sea. 

^  ^  ^  ^ 

Hark  !  the  wild  bugle  !    Hear  it  ringing 

Its  mighty  call  to  woodland  and  plain  ! 
O,  on  the  fiery  steed  to  be  springing, 

And  bounding  away  with  the  frolicsome  train  ! 
And,  ah!  once  more  that  well-known  voice! 

It  comes  with  sad,  sweet  memories  filled : 
How  often  it  made  my  heart  to  rejoice, 

How  often  mine  ear  with  its  melody  thrilled, 
When  it  came,  on  the  breeze  of  the  Highlands  borne, 
With  the  roar  of  the  chase  and  the  sound  of  the  horn! 


JOAN  OF  ARC'S  FAREWELL  TO  HER  HOME.  137 


JOAN  OF  ARC'S  FAREWELL  TO  HER  HOME. 

Farewell,  ye  mountains,  ye  beloved  pastures, 

And  peaceful,  friendly  valleys;  fare  ye  well. 
Joan  no  more  along  your  paths  may  wander  ; 

She  bids  you  now  a  fond,  a  last  farewell ; 
Meadows  that  I  have  watered,  trees  I  planted, 

Long  may  your  smiling  green  my  kindness  tell ; 
Farewell,  ye  cooling  grottoes,  murmuring  fountains, 

And  thou,  soft  Echo,  voice  of  the  lone  dell, 
That  oft  mad'st  answer  to  my  jocund  strain;  — 
Joan  may  never  visit  you  again ! 

Ye  scenes  where  all  my  quiet  joys  were  found, 

I  leave  you  here  behind  for  evermore ; 
Ye  lambkins  sporting  on  the  flowery  ground, 

Soon,  a  lost  flock,  ye'U  roam  the  mountains  o'er  : 
I  go  to  lead  another  flock,  'mid  sound 

Of  drum  and  trumpet,  on  a  field  of  gore. 
A  spirit's  voice  hath  summoned  me  —  I  yield  — 
No  earth-born  passion  spurs  me  to  the  field. 

He  who  of  old  on  Horeb's  height  came  down, 
And  from  the  burning  bush  to  Moses  spake ; 

Who  bade  him  stand  and  brave  stern  Pharaoh's  frown ; 
Who  bade  the  shepherd-son  of  Jesse  take 

A  warrior's  spear  and  wear  a  kingly  crown ; 

Who  still  loves  shepherds  for  his  mercy's  sake,  — 
m  2 


138 


SCHILLER. 


To  me  hath  spoken  from  yon  whispering  tree, — 
"Go  forth;  thou  shalt  on  earth  my  witness  be! 

"Go,  and  henceforth  the  brazen  armor  prove; 

Bind  the  steel  breastplate  to  thy  tender  breast; 
Let  not  man's  love  have  power  thy  heart  to  move, 

Nor  wild,  unholy  fires  thy  soul  molest ; 
No  bridal  wreath  shall  bloom  thy  brow  above, 

No  smiling  infant  on  thy  bosom  rest;  — 
Yet  shall  the  hero's  lasting  fame  be  thine ; 
Above  earth's  noblest  daughters  thou  shalt  shine. 

"  When  in  the  shock  of  fight  the  mightiest  reel, 
When  the  last  hour  of  France  is  drawing  nigh, 
Then  shalt  thou  wave  my  oriflamb  on  high, 

Like  corn  before  the  reaping  maiden's  steel, 
Low  in  the  dust  shalt  see  the  tyrant  lie, 

Roll  back  his  proud,  triumphant  chariot  wheel, 
To  the  brave  sons  of  France  salvation  bring, 
Deliver  Rheims,  and  crown  thy  rightful  king." 

The  Lord  of  Hosts  hath  promised  me  a  sign, 
And  now  he  sends  this  helmet1  —  'tis  from  him! 

Its  iron  touch  nerves  me  with  power  divine; 
I  feel  the  glory  of  the  cherubim  ; 

I  must  away  to  join  the  bristling  line  — 

A  tempest  whirls  me  onward ;  earth  grows  dim ; 

The  din  of  battle  summons  me  away  ; 

The  war-steed  prances,  and  the  trumpets  bray. 


1  See  Note  J. 


JOAN  OF  ARC  AT  RHEIMS. 


139 


JOAN  OF  ARC,  ON  THE  DAY  OF  THE  CORONATION  IN 
RHEIMS.  I 

The  din  of  arms,  the  storm  of  strife,  is  o'er, 
And  bloody  battles  yield  to  dance  and  song; 

Through  every  street  the  gay  processions  pour, 
To  church  and  altar  with  glad  music  throng; 

They  pass  through  many  a  green;  triumphal  door, 
Through  aisles  of  rustling  leaves  they  sweep  along; 

Rheims  scarce  can  hold  the  crowds  that  roll,  this  day, 

Like  ocean's  billows,  through  each  echoing  way. 

And  now  one  gleam  of  joy  lights  every  eye, 
One  proud  emotion  throbs  in  every  breast ; 

Where,  late,  the  bloody  waves  of  strife  ran  high, 
Now  all  is  lulled  to  harmony  and  rest. 

The  name  of  France  makes  Frenchmen's  pulses  fly  ; 
To  own  that  name  is  to  be  richly  blessed; 

The  lustre  of  the  old  crown  comes  back  again, 

And  France  prepares  to  hail  her  rightful  sovereign's 
reign. 

But  I,  who  ushered  in  this  glorious  day,  — 

I  have  no  heart  to  feel  the  joy  I  see  ! 
My  sinking  spirit  flies  from  scenes  so  gay ; 

The  voice  of  earth-born  passion  whispers  me ; 


1  See  Note  K. 


140 


SCHILLER. 


To  Britain's  distant  camp  my  longings  stray ; 

Ay,  to  my  country's  foes  I  yearn  to  flee, 
And  from  these  scenes  of  gladness  needs  must  steal, 
My  bosom's  deep  pollution  to  conceal. 

I  ?  what !  I,  in  my  pure  bosom, 

Filled  with  glory  from  above, 
Bow  before  a  human  idol  ? 

Feel  one  throb  of  earthly  love? 
Redeemer  of  my  country  —  I  — 
Champion  of  Him  who  reigns  on  high  — 
Burn  for  my  country's  deadly  foe ! 
And  dare  I  tell  the  chaste  sun  so, 

Nor  sink  into  the  dust  for  shame? 

Hark  !  Ah  me  !  what  strains  steal  o'er  me  ! 

How  they  cheat  my  captive  ear ! 

In  each  tone  his  voice  I  hear, 
And  his  image  glides  before  me. 

O  for  the  storm  and  the  shock  of  battle! 

For  the  crash  of  the  lance  and  the  armor's  rattle! 

O  for  the  music  of  deadly  strife ! 

Then  would  my  spirit  awake  to  life. 

Ah,  these  voices  —  tones  of  sweetness  — 
How  they  chain  my  willing  heart ! 

All  my  strength  —  my  heaven-born  fire  — 

Dies  in  feeble,  fond  desire, 
As  the  tears  of  memory  start. 


JOAN  OF  ARC  AT  RHEIMS. 


141 


Should  I  have  killed  him?    Could  I,  when  his  eye 

Met  mine?    Kill  him!    No  ;  sooner  had  I  turned 

On  my  own  breast  the  deadly-pointed  steel ! 

And  was  it  guilt  in  me  that  I  was  human? 

Is  pity  sin,  then?  —  Pity!  —  Didst  thou  hear 

The  voice  of  Pity  and  Humanity, 

When  other  victims  fell  beneath  thy  sword  ! 

Where  slept  that  voice  when  late  the  Welshman,  ay, 

That  tender  youth,  besought  thee  for  his  life? 

False  heart !  thou  liest  to  the  Eternal  Day ! 

Not  Pity's  holy  voice  led  thee  astray. 

What  power  impelled  me  on  his  face  to  gaze? 
With  that  first  look  thy  dreadful  sin  began, 
Unhappy  one  !    Blind  instruments  God  asks ! 
With  blinded  eyes  thou  shouldst  have  done  the  deed ; 
God's  shield  was  gone  so  soon  as  thou  didst  see, 
And  Hell  that  moment  fixed  her  fatal  snares  on  thee ! 

Peaceful  crook  !  that  I  should  ever 

Change  thee  for  the  battle-sword  ! 
Holy  oak !  O,  had  I  never 

Thy  mysterious  whisperings  heard  ! 
Would  that  thou,  high  Queen  of  Heaven! 

Never  hadst  to  earth  come  down ! 
O,  take  back  what  thou  hast  given  — 

Take  again  this  heavy  crown ! 

Ah,  Heaven's  gates  rose  bright  before  me, 
And  the  mansions  of  the  blessed  : 

Clouds  and  darkness  now  hang  o'er  me; 
All  my  hopes  on  earth  must  rest ! 


SCHILLER. 


Why,  ah,  why  was  that  sad  burden 

On  my  feeble  spirit  laid? 
Could  I  thus  this  bosom  harden  — 

I —  a  timid,  trembling  maid? 

If  thou  wilt  reveal  thy  glory, 

Choose  the  pure  ones,  who  before  thee 

Stand  in  unapproached  light  — 

Spirits  spotless  in  thy  sight ! 
Let  them  work  thy  will,  who  sleep  not 
Night  and  day,  who  feel  not  —  weep  not, 

But,  O  choose  not  tender  maiden, 

Herdsmaid's  heart  with  frailties  laden ! 

What  had  I  to  do  with  empires, 

Fate  of  kings  and  bloody  fight? 
Harmless  I  my  lambs  had  tended 

On  the  silent  mountain's  height ; 
But  thy  summons  sternly  tore  me 

From  a  happy,  peaceful  home, 
To  the  scenes  of  splendor  bore  me, 

There  in  sin's  dark  paths  to  roam ! 


THE  MAIDEN'S  LAMENT. 


143 


THE  MAIDEN'S  LAMENT. 


W  ALL  ENSTE  I JJ. 


The  clouds  are  heavy, 
The  oak-woods  roar; 
The  maid  is  sitting 
By  ocean's  shore. 
The  waves  are  breaking  with  might,  with  might, 
And  she  breathes  her  sighs  on  the  dusky  night, 
Her  eyes  with  weeping  wasted. 

"  My  heart  is  perished  ; 

The  world  is  void, 
And  to  wish  of  mine 
Can  give  nought  beside. 
Thou  Holy  One,  now  thy  child  recall ! 
For  of  earth's  delight  I  have  had  my  all, — 
Of  life  and  of  love  I've  tasted." 

N.  L.  F. 


144 


SCHILLER. 


PARTING  OF  HECTOR  AND  ANDROMACHE. 

"  Will  my  Hector  go,  for  evermore, 
Where  Achilles,  on  the  blood-stained  shore, 

Brings  dread  offerings  to  Patroclus'  tomb? 
W7ho  shall  teach  thy  little  ones  the  spear  1 
Who  shall  bid  them  love  the  gods,  and  fear, 

When  thou  art  swallowed  up  in  Orcus'  gloom  !" 

"  Dearest  wife,  the  untimely  tear  restrain; 
Heaven  impels  me  to  the  battle-plain; 

This  right  hand  old  Pergamus  defends. 
For  the  gods  —  a  holy  band  —  contending, 
And  the  land  in  her  last  hour  defending, 

To  the  Stygian  flood  my  soul  descends." 

"  In  the  hall  still  hang  thy  shield  and  spear  — 
May  I  never  more  their  clanking  hear ! 

Priam's  mighty  race  is  fading  fast. 
Thou  wilt  go  where  day  no  more  is  shining, 
Where  Cocytus  through  the  waste  flows  pining, 

And  thy  love  in  Lethe  die  at  last!  " 

"  All  my  fond  ambition,  each  bright  dream, 
Will  I  sink  in  Lethe's  sullen  stream ; 

But  my  love  shall  never  be  forgot !  — 
Hark  !  that  wild  cry  from  the  walls  is  sweeping ! 
Gird  me  on  my  sword  now  —  cease  thy  weeping  — 

Hector's  love  in  Lethe  dieth  not ! " 


A   SAYING  OF  CONFUCIUS. 


145 


A  SAYIN«  OF  CONFUCIUS. 

The  steps  of  Time  have  a  threefold  gait :  — 
Loitering  slow  the  Future  advances; 
Arrow-swift  by  the  Present  glances; 

Ever  the  Past  holds  its  fixed  estate. 

No  impatient  thought  can  wing  it, 

When  its  lingering  feet  delay; 
Fear  nor  doubt  to  pause  can  bring  it, 

As  it  speeds  away  —  away ; 
Nor  magic  charm,  nor  guilt's  distress, 
Avails  to  move  the  motionless. 

Wouldst  thou  with  the  blest  and  wise 
End  the  course  that  before  thee  lies?  — 
Let  the  Loiterer  counsel  read, 
But  ne'er  be  partner  of  thy  deed  ; 
Choose  not  as  friend  with  the  Flying  to  go, 
And  make  not  the  Unchangeable  thy  foe. 

N  L.  F. 


N 


SCHILT  ER 


EPIGRAMS 


THE  ILIAD. 


Tear  up  the  laurel  of  Homer,  and  number  the  fathers 

Of  the  completed,  eternal  work  ! 
It  has  only  one  mother  still,  and  the  features  of  mother ; 

Nature!  they're  thine  eternal  traits. 

N.  L.  F. 


GOODNESS   AND  GREATNESS. 


Only  two  virtues  are  there:  O,  were  they  always  united, 
And  goodness  always  were  great,  always  greatness 
were  good ! 

N.  L.  P. 


THE  PHILOSOPHIES. 


Of  all  the  philosophies,  which   stands   firmest?  —  [ 
know  not ; 

But  philosophy's  self,  I  trust,  shall  ever  endure. 

N.  L.  F. 


EPIGRAMS. 


147 


THE  CHILD   IN  THE  CRADLE. 

Happy  infant !  in  thy  cradle 

Endless  space  thou  seem'st  to  see ; 

Be  a  man —  and  all  creation 
Is  not  wide  enough  for  thee  ! 


ANTICIPATION  AND  REALITY. 

Youth,  with  thousand-masted  vessel, 
Ploughs  the  sea  at  morning  light ; 

Age,  in  shattered  skiff  escaping, 
Calmly  drifts  to  port  at  night. 


GOETHE. 


GOETHE. 


ALEXIS  AND  DORA. 

Ah  !  unrestrainedly  onward  struggles  the  ship  every 
moment 

Thorough  the  white-foaming  flood  further  and  further 
away  ! 

Furrows  follow  the  track  of  the  keel,  and  in  them  the 
dolphins 

Springing  follow  the  ship,  catching  the  food  from  it 
thrown 

All  betokens  a  prosperous  voyage;  —  peaceful  the  boat- 
swain 

Gently  pulls  at  the  sail  which  works  for  all  who  are 
there. 

Forward  press  the  mariners'  hearts,  like  the  colors  and 
pennons ; 

One  only  backward  stands,  mournfully  turned  to  the 
mast,  — 

Sees  the  mountains,  now  blue,  all  receding,  —  sees  them 
in  ocean 

Sinking  away;  —  so  sinks  every  dear  joy  before  him. 
Also  is  vanished  to  thee  the  ship  that  bears  thy  Alexis, 
Far,  O  Dora,  from  thee  bears  thy  lover  away. 


152 


GOETHE. 


Thou,  too,  lookest  in  vain  after  me.    Our  hearts  are  now 
beating 

For  each  other,  but,  ah  !  against  each  other  no  more. 
Only  moment  in  which  I  truly  did  live,  thou  out- 

weighest 

All  the  days  of  my  life  that  vanished  so  coldly  away. 
Ah !  in  that  moment  alone,  the  last,  in  thee  there  de- 
scended, 

Unexpected  to  me,  as  from  the  immortals,  a  life. 
But  in  vain  with  thy  light  thou  clearest  the  clouds  from 
the  ether ; 

Thy  all-illumining  day,  Phoebus,  is  hateful  to  me. 
Now  to  myself  I  return  once  more,  and,  musing  in 
silence, 

Echo  the  time  when  she  daily  to  me  would  appear. 
Possible  was  it  to  see  her  beauty,  and  yet  not  to  feel  it? 
Did  not  the  heavenly  charm  work  on  thy  senses 
obtuse  ? 

Poor  one,  accuse  not  thyself!  —  So  reads  the  poet,  a 
riddle 

Skilfully  fettered  with  words,  oft  to  the  ears  of  the 
crowd. 

Each  one  enjoys  the  rare  union  of  elegant  pictures, 
But  still  is  wanting  the  word  which  the  true  meaning 
must  show. 

When  'tis  at  length  revealed,  then  brightens  each  soul 
in  an  instant, 

And  in  the  poem  perceives  doubly  delightful  the  sense. 
Ah!  why  so  late  from  my  eyes,  O  Love,  didst  thou  tear 

off  the  bandage? 
Wherefore  so  late  from  my  sight  the  bandage  thy 

cunning  had  wove  ? 


ALEXIS  AND  DORA. 


153 


Long  waits  already  the  well-freighted  ship  for  the  favor- 
ing breezes, 

Finally  struggles  the  joyful  wind  from  shore  to  the  sea. 
Vain  are  the  hours  of  youth,  and  vain  the  dreams  of 
the  future  : 

Ye  must  vanish  away  —  only  the  hour  remains. 
Yes,  she  is  here ;  for  me  there  is  joy ;  I  have  thee, 
my  Dora; 

Hope  shows  sweetly  to  me,  Dora,  thine  image  alone. 
Often  I  saw  thee  go  to  the  temple,  well-dressed  and 

well-mannered, 
And  thy  mother  walked  on  solemnly,  close  by  thy 

side. 

Busy  wast  thou,  and  brisk  to  carry  thy  fruits  to  the 
market ; 

And  from  the  fountain  how  boldly  the  full  vase 
swung  on  thy  head ! 
Then  appeared  thy  neck  before  all  so  lovely  and  bril- 
liant, 

And  thy  beautiful  grace  in  every  motion  we  saw. 
Many  a  time  have  I  feared  for  thee  lest  the  pitcher 
should  tumble  ; 
But  it  stood  ever  firm  there  on  thy  ringleted  tire. 
Beautiful  neighbor,  yes,  I  then  was  accustomed  to  see 
thee 

As  we  see  the  stars —  as  we  gaze  on  the  moon  — 
As  we  rejoice  in  their  light — and,  with  tranquilest  bo- 
soms, 

Not  the  remotest  wish  stirs  to  possess  them  ourselves. 
Years,  thus  fled  ye  away.    But  twenty  paces  asunder 
Stood  our  houses,  and  T  never  her  threshold  had 
crossed. 


154 


GOETHE. 


And  now  divides  us  the  terrible  flood  !    Thou  deceiv'st 
but  the  heavens, 
Ocean !  thy  glorious  blue  to  me  is  the  color  of  night 
All  was  stirring  already  :    then  came  a  boy  swiftlv 
running 

Up  to  my  father's  house,  calling  me  down  to  the 
beach. 

"  See,  they  are  raising  the  sail ;    in  the  wind  it  is  flap- 
ping ;  "  —  so  said  he  — 
"  And  they  are  weighing  with  strength  the  anchor 
drawn  up  from  the  sand." 
"  Come,  Alexis,  O  come  !  "  So  urged  my  gallant  old  father, 
Blessing  me,  with  his  hand  placed  on  the  curls  of  my 
head. 

Carefully  gave  my  mother  to  me  a  well-prepared  bun- 
dle. 

"  Safely  mayst  thou  return,"  cried  they,  "  safely  and 
rich!" 

And  so  sprang  I  away,  under  my  arm  took  my  bun- 
dle, 

Downward  swift  to  the  wall ;  —  standing  I  saw  thee 
there 

At  the  gate  of  the  garden  ;  —  thou  smiledst,  and  spokest 
—  "  Alexis, 

Yon  noisy  fellows,  shall  they  be  thy  companions  on 
board  ? 

Foreign  lands  thou  art  going  to  seek  ;  thou'rt  going  to 
purchase 

Costliest  jewels  and  wares,  all  for  the  rich  city  dames. 
Bring,  then,  a  chainlet  for  me,  and  I  will  gratefully 
take  it : 

Many  a  time  have  I  wished  such  a  small  necklace  to 
own." 


ALEXIS  AND  DOHA. 


155 


Then  remaining,  I  stood  and  inquired,  in  merchant-like 
manner, 

Touching  the  shape  and  the  weight  of  this  necklace 
for  thee. 

Modestly  thou  didst  consider  the  price;    then  gazed  I 
upon  thee, 

Looked  at  thy  neck,  which  1  thought  worthy  the 
jewels  of  our  queen. 
Vehement  came  then  a  call  from  the  ship  :  then  saidest 
thou  kindly, 

"  Take  with  thee,  ere  thou  goest,  some  of  our  garden 
fruits ; 

Take  the  ripest  oranges :   take  some  figs ;    for  the 
ocean 

Gives  no  fruits  such  as  these ;    yields  them  not  every 
land." 

So  through  the  gate-way  I  stepped ;  the  fruit  thou 

busily  broughtest, 
And  with  the  golden  load  thy  apron  was  heavily  filled. 
Often  I  said,  "Now  this  is  enough;"  yet  still  there 

kept  falling 

Fairer  fruits  from  the  tree  gently  touched  by  thy 
hand. 

Then  to  the  arbor  thou  earnest  at  last ;  we  found  there 
a  basket, 

And  the  myrtle-tree  bent  blooming  over  our  heads. 
Silently  now  thou  began'st  to  arrange  the  fruits  in  their 
order  — 

First  the  oranges  ripe  resting  like  golden  balls, 
Then  the  delicate  figs  yielding  to  every  pressure, 

And  with  myrtles  bedecked  was  the  acceptable  gift. 
Yet  I  took  it  not  up  :    I  stood.    We  looked  at  each 
other, 


156 


GOETHE. 


Looked  in  each  other's  eyes ;  ah !  how  sad  was  that 
look ! 

Close  to  my  bosom  I  pressed  thee ;  round  thy  beautiful 
shoulders 

Circling  my  arm,  I  gave  many  a  passionate  kiss. 
Sank  thy  head  on  my  shoulder,  twined  thy  fair  arms 
around  me; 

Thus  we  completed  the  tie  blessedly  binding  our 
souls. 

Then  did  I  feel  love's  hand;   it  potently  pressed  us  to- 
gether, 

While  from  the  cloudless  sky  three  times  it  thun- 
dered ;  then  fell 
Showers  of  tears  from  our  eyes,  both  of  us  bitterly 
weeping, 

And  before  weeping  and  joy  the  world  seemed  to 
vanish  away. 

Still  came  the  vehement  call  from  the  shore :  how  loath 
were  my  feet  to 
Bear  me  away !   I  cried,  "  Dora !  and  art  thou  not 
mine  ? " 

"Forever!"  softly  thou  said'st.    Then  seemed  the  tear*, 
we  were  shedding 
As  by  some  heavenly  breeze  dried  gently  away  from 
our  eyes. 

Nearer  the  cry  rang  —  "  Alexis !  "  Then  peeped  the  boy 
who  was  searching, 
In  through  the  garden  door,  and  quickly  the  basket 
took  up, 

Urging  me  hurriedly  on  :  how  fondly  I  pressed  then  thy 
hand,  love ! 

How  did  I  get  to  the  ship  !    I  know,  like  a  drunkard 
I  seemed ; 


ALEXIS   AND  DORA. 


157 


And  my  companions  so  thought  me,  and  gazed  on  the 

sick  youth  with  pity  ; 
And  separation's  sad  spell  covered  already  the  town. 
"Forever!"  Dora,  thou  murmuredst;  still  in  my  ear  it 

is  rincrinor 

With  the  dread  thunder  of  Jove!    Stood  she  then 
near  the  throne, 
Daughter  of  Jupiter,  goddess  of  love ;  the  Graces  were 
standing 

There  at  her  side,  and  the  league  by  all  the  immortals 

is  blessed ! 

O,  then,  hasten,  thou  ship,  with  all  kind,  favoring  breezes ; 
Strive,  thou  powerful  keel,  cut  through  the  white, 
foaming  flood ; 

Carry  me  safe  to  the  haven  afar,  to  the  shop  of  the  gold- 
smith, 

That  I  may  bid  him  to  make  that  heavenly  pledge 
for  my  love. 

Truly,  the  chainlet  shall  prove  a  chain  for  thee,  O  my 
Dora ! 

Nine  times  folding  around,  loosely  encircling  thy 
neck. 

Jewels  brought  from  afar  of  every  kind  will  I  bring  thee  ; 
Clasps  of  glittering  gold  shall  shine  on  thy  delicate 
wrists. 

There  shall  the  emerald  vie  with  the  ruby ;  the  beautiful 
sapphire, 

By  the  bright  hyacinth's  side,  sparkle  with  emulous 
light ; 

And  the  rich  gold  shall  knit  the  glittering  brilliants  to- 
gether. 


158 


GOETHE. 


O,  how  the  bridegroom  exults  simply  in  decking  his 
bride ! 

If  I  see  pearls,  of  thee  I  shall  think,  and  every  ring 
shall 

Bring  to  my  fancy  the  fair  form  of  thy  tapering  hand. 
I  shall  traffic  and  buy ;  but  thou  shalt  choose  thee  the 
richest. 

All  my  cargo  to  thee  cheerfully  will  I  devote. 
Yet  not  treasures  and  jewels  alone  thy  beloved  will  pur- 
chase ; 

All  that  a  housewife  enjoys,  that  will  I  bring  with 
me  too. 

Fine  woollen  coverings  I'll  bring,  with  borders  of  pur- 
ple, to  make  thee 
Couches  soft  and  warm,  where  we  may  quietly  sleep. 
Costly  pieces  of  linen  I  see  thee  sitting  and  sewing, 
Clothing  me  and  thyself,  and  afterwards,  may  be,  a 
third. 

Dreams  of  hope,  ye're  deceiving  my  heart !    O  temper, 
ye  Powers, 

This  too  passionate  fire  burning  so  fierce  in  my 
breast. 

Yet  do  I  long  to  feel  it  again,  the  painful  enjoyment, 

When  this  anxiety,  chill  and  horribly  tranquil,  is  near. 
Not  the  torch  of  the  furies,  the  hell-hounds'  terrible 
yelling, 

Frightens  the  criminal  so  in  the  dark  fields  of  despair, 
As  the  calm  spectre  me  frightens  that  shows  me  this  mo- 
ment my  fair  one ; 
For  indeed  the  gate  of  her  garden  stands  open  still ! 
And  another  comes  in :    for  him  the  ripe  fruits  are 
falling, 


ALEXIS  AND  DORA. 


159 


And  the  figs  yield  up  strengthening  honey  to  him  I 
Lures  she  him,  following,  too,  to  the  arbor?    O,  make 

me,  immortals, 
Blind,  the  image  wash  out  of  every  remembrance  in 

me! 

Yes,  she's  a  girl !  and  she  who  to  one  resigns  herself 
quickly, 

Soon  to  another  may  turn,  and  give  herself  quickly  to 
him. 

Laugh  not,  O  Jupiter,  now  at  vows  thus  shamelessly- 
broken  ! 

Thunder  more  dreadfully!    Smite!    Lift  the  thun- 
derbolt back ! 

After  me  send  the  staggering  clouds  !    In  darkness  the 
thickest 

Strike  with  thy  glittering  bolt  this  unfortunate  mast! 
Scatter  the  planks  around,  and  give  to  the  maddening 
surges 

All  these  treasures!  and  me  give  to  the  fish  for  a 
prey !  — 

Now,  ye  Muses,  enough !    for  vainly  ye  strive  to  de- 
picture 

How  in  the  lover's  breast  agony  mingles  with  bliss. 
Heal  ye  cannot  the  wounds  which  love  has  made  in  our 
bosoms, 

But  mitigation  can  come  only,  ye  blessed,  from  you. 


C.  P.  C. 


160 


GOETHE. 


THE  ERL-KING. 

Who  rides  so  late  through  night-winds  wild? 

It  is  the  father  with  his  child  ; 

He  folds  the  darling  well  in  his  arm  ; 

He  clasps  him  close,  and  he  keeps  him  warm. 

"  My  son,  why  so  timidly  cover  thine  eye  ?  " 
"  See'st  thou  not,  father,  the  Erl-king  nigh? 
'Tis  he,  with  his  crown  and  his  glittering  train." 
"My  son,  'tis  the  mist-lights  that  dance  on  ths  plain." 

"  Thou  gentle  child,  come,  go  with  me ! 

Ah,  beautiful  plays  I'll  play  with  thee; 

The  sweetest  of  flowers  on  the  shore  thou'lt  behold  ; 

My  mother  hath  many  a  garment  of  gold." 

"  My  father,  my  father,  and  dost  thou  not  hear 
What  words  of  promise  he  breathes  in  my  ear  ?  " 
"  Be  quiet,  my  child,  be  quiet;  the  breeze 
Moans,  as  it  creeps  through  the  withering  trees." 

"  Say,  beautiful  boy,  wilt  go  with  me? 

My  daughters  in  beauty  shall  wait  upon  thee ; 

My  daughters  around  thee  their  night-watch  shall  keep, 

And  rock  thee,  and  dance  thee,  and  sing  thee  to  sleep.' 


THE  ERL-KING. 


101 


"  My  father,  my  father,  and  see'st  thou  not  there 

The  Erl-king's  daughters  glide  through  the  dark  air?" 

"  My  son,  my  sou,  'tis  the  old  willow-trees 

That  nod  their  gray  heads  to  the  nightly  breeze." 

"  I  love  thee ;  I  yearn  for  that  fair  form  of  thine  ; 
And,  willing  or  not,  thou  must  come  and  be  mine." 
"  My  father,  my  father,  I  feel  his  cold  arm ! 
The  Erl-king  has  done  me  a  dreadful  harm  ! " 

The  father  shudders ;  with  terror  wild 
He  clasps  to  his  bosom  the  moaning  child  ; 
All  faint  and  breathless  he  gains  his  door ; 
'Twas  a  pale,  dead  child  in  his  arms  he  bore. 


p2 


102 


GOETHE. 


MIGNON. 

Know'st  thou  the  land  where  spicy  citrons  blow  — 
Gold  oranges  through  dark-green  foliage  glow  — 
A  soft  wind  breathes  along  the  pure  blue  sky  — 
The  myrtle  silent  stands  —  the  laurel  high  — 
Know'st  thou  it  haply?  —  Then  with  thee, 
Thither,  my  loved  one,  thither  would  I  flee ! 

Know'st  thou  the  house  with  columns  white  and  tall, 

Its  gleaming  chambers  and  its  sparkling  hall? 

Pale  marble  statues  stand  and  gaze  on  me, 

And  say,  "  Poor  child !  what  have  they  done  to  thee?  " 

Know'st  thou  it  haply?  — Then  with  thee, 

Thither,  my  guardian,  thither  would  I  flee! 

Know'st  thou  the  mountain  and  its  misty  bridge  ? 
The  slow  mule  feels  his  way  along  the  ridge  ; 
In  holes  lie  coiled  the  serpent's  ancient  brood; 
Down  rolls  the  rock,  and  over  it  the  flood. 
Know'st  thou  it  haply?  —  Then  with  thee, 
That  way,  my  father,  homeward  would  I  flee  ! 


THE  FISHER. 


THE  FISHER. 

The  waters  purled  —  the  waters  swelled  — 

A  fisher  sat  near  by, 
And  earnestly  his  line  beheld 

With  tranquil  heart  and  eye. 
And  while  he  sits  and  watches  there, 

He  sees  the  waves  divide, 
And,  lo!  a  maid,  with  glistening  hair, 

Springs  from  the  troubled  tide. 

She  sang  to  him  —  she  spake  to  him  — 

"  Why  lur'st  thou  from  below, 
In  cruel  mood,  my  tender  brood, 

To  die  in  day's  fierce  glow? 
Ah!  didst  thou  know  how  sweetly  there 

The  little  fishes  dwell, 
Thou  wouldst  come  down  their  lot  to  share, 

And  be  forever  well. 

"  Bathes  not  the  smiling  sun  at  night  — 

The  moon,  too  —  in  the  waves? 
Comes  he  not  forth  more  fresh  and  bright 

From  ocean's  cooling  caves? 
Canst  thou  unmoved  that  deep  world  see, 

That  heaven  of  tranquil  blue, 
Where  thine  own  face  is  beckoning  thee 

Down  to  the  eternal  dew  ?  " 


GOETHE. 

The  waters  purled  —  the  waters  swelled 

They  kissed  his  naked  feet ; 
His  heart  a  nameless  transport  held, 

As  if  his  love  did  greet. 
She  spake  to  him  —  she  sang  to  him  — 

Then  all  with  him  was  o'er  — 
Half  drew  she  him  —  half  sank  he  in  — 

He  sank  to  rise  no  more. 


TO  THE   PARTED  ONE. 


165 


TO  THE  PARTED  ONE 

And  thou  art  now  no  longer  near ! 

From  me,  O  fairest,  thou  hast  flown ! 
Nor  rings  in  my  accustomed  ear 

A  single  word  —  a  single  tone 

As  when,  at  morn,  the  wanderer's  eye 
Pierces  the  air  in  vain  to  see 

Where,  hidden  in  the  deep-blue  sky, 
High  up  the  lark  goes  singing  free, — 

So  wanders  anxiously  my  gaze 

Piercing  the  field,  the  bush,  the  grove  ; 
On  thee  still  call  my  frequent  lays : 

O,  come  to  me  again,  dear  love. 


C.  P.  C. 


GOETHE. 


TO  THE  CLOUDS. 

Clouds  that  sweep  the  midnight  heaven, 
On  your  bright  wings  let  me  rove  ; 

Leave  me  not  with  anguish  riven, 
None  who  love  me  —  none  to  love. 

Oft,  my  nightly  vigils  keeping, 
I  have  watched  you  till  the  dawn, 

Through  the  far  blue  heavens  sweeping, 
On  your  snowy  pinions  borne. 

Away  —  away,  forever  speeding, 
Careless  wanderers  of  the  air, 

Human  joy  and  woe  unheeding, 
Ah,  ye  pause  not  at  my  prayer. 

Leave,  O  leave  me  not  in  sadness, 
Heavenly  longings  in  my  breast ; 

Bear  me  on  your  wings  of  gladness 
To  the  far  home  of  my  rest. 


S.  H.  W. 


RÜCKERT. 


1 


RÜCKERT. 


STRUNG  PEARLS. 

'Tis  true,  the  breath  of  sighs  throws  mist  upon  a 
mirror ; 

But  yet,  through  breath  of  sighs,  the  soul's  clear  glass 

grows  clearer. 
From  God  there  is  no  flight,  but  only  to  him.  Daring 
Protects  not  when  he  frowns,  but  the  child's  filial 

bearing. 

The  father  feels  the  blow  when  he  corrects  his  son; 
But  when  thy  heart  is  loose,  rigor's  a  kindness  done. 
A  father  should  to  God  pray,  each  new  day  at  latest, 
"  Lord,  teach  me  how  to  use  the  power  thou  dele- 
gatest." 

O,  look,  whene'er  the  world  thy  senses  would  betray, 
Up  to  the  steady  heavens,  where  the  stars  never  stray. 
The  sun  and  moon  take  turns,  and  each  to  each  gives 
place ; 

Else  were  e'en  their  wide  house  but  a  too  narrow  space. 
When  thy  weak  heart  is  tossed  with  passion's  fiery  gust, 
Say  to  it,  "  Knowest  thou  how  soon  thou  shalt  be  dust?  " 
Say  to  thy  foe,  "  Is  death  not  common  to  us  twain  1 
Come,  then,  death-kinsman  mine,  and  we'll  be  friends 
again." 

p 


170  RÜCKERT. 

Much  rather  than  the  spots  upon  the  sun's  broad  light, 
Would  love  spy  out  the  stars,  scarce  twinkling  through 
the  night. 

Thou  none  the  better  art  for  seeking  what  to  blame, 
And  ne'er  wilt  famous  be  by  blasting  others'  fame. 
The  name  alone  remains  when  all  beside  is  reft; 
O,  leave,  then,  to  the  dead  that  little  which  is  left. 
Repentance  can  avail  from  God's  rebuke  to  save; 
But  men  will  ne'er  forget  thine  errors  in  thy  grave. 
Be  good,  and  fear  for  nought  that  slanderous  speech 
endangers  ; 

Who  bears  no  sin  himself  affords  to  bear  a  stranger's. 
Say  to  thy  pride,  '"Tis  all  but  ashes  for  the  urn; 
Come,  let  us  own  our  dust,  before  to  dust  we  turn." 
Be  yielding  to  thy  foe,  and  peace  shall  he  yield  back; 
But  yield  not  to  thyself,  and  thou'rt  on  victory's  track 
Who  is  thy  deadliest  foe?  — An  evil  heart's  desire, 
That   hates  thee  still  the  worse,  as  thy  weak  love 

mounts  higher. 
Know'st  thou  where  neither  lords  nor  wretched  serfs 

appear  ? 

Where  one  the  other  serves,  for  each  to  each  is  dear. 
Thou'lt  ne'er  arrive  at  love,  while  still  to  life  thou'lt 
cling; 

I'm  found  but  at  the  cost  of  thy  self-offering. 
According  as  thou  wouldst  receive,  thou  must  impart ; 
Must  wholly  give  a  life,  to  wholly  have  a  heart. 
Till  thought  of  thine  own  worth  far  buried  from  thee  lies, 
How  know  I  that  indeed  my  worth's  before  thine  eyes  ? 
What  more  says  he  that  speaks,  than  he  that  holds  his 
peace? 

Yet  woe  betide  the  heart  that  from  thy  praise  can  cease. 


STRUNG  PEARLS. 


171 


Say  I,  "  In  thee  I  am  "  ?  —  say  I,  "  Thou  art  in  me  "  ?  — 
Thou  art  what  in  me  is;  —  what  I  am  is  through  thee. 

0  sun,  I  am  thy  beam;  O  rose,  I  am  thy  scent; 

1  am  thy  drop,  O  sea ;  thy  breath,  O  firmament. 
Unmeasured  mystery !  what  not  the  heavens  contain 
Will  here  be  held  in  this  small  heart  and  narrow  brain. 
Of  that  tree  I'm  a  leaf,  which  ever  new  doth  sprout; 
Hail  me !    my  stock  remains  though  winds  toss  me 

about. 

Destruction  blows  on  thee,  while  thou  alone  dost  stay  : 
O  feel  thee  in  that  whole,  which  ne'er  shall  pass  away. 
How  great  soe'er  thyself,  thou'rt  nought  before  the  All ; 
But,  as  a  member  there,  important,  though  most  small. 
The  little  bee  to  fight  doth  like  a  champion  spur, 
Because,  not  for  herself,  she  feels  her  tribe  in  her  ; 
Because  so  sweet  her  work,  so  sharp  must  be  her  sting ; 
The  earth  hath  no  delight  unscourged  by  suffering. 
From  the  same  flower  she  sucks  both  food  and  poison  up  ; 
For  death  doth  lurk  alway  in  life's  delicious  cup. 
The  mulberry-leaf  must  bear  the  biting  of  a  worm, 
That  so  it  may  be  raised  to  wear  its  silken  form. 
See !    how  along  the   ground   the   ant-hosts  blindly 
throng ! 

Yet  no  more  than  the  choirs  of  stars  can  these  go  wrong. 
Toward  setting  sun  the  lark  floats  on  in  jubilee; 
Frisking  in  light  the  gnat  to  himself  makes  melody. 
Sundown  —  the  lark's  note  melts  into  the  air  of  even; 
To  earth  she  falls  not  back ;  her  grave  is  in  the  heaven. 
When  twilight  fades,  steal  forth  the  constellations  bright ; 
Below,  'tis  day  that  lives — in  upper  air,  the  night. 
The  powerful  sun  to  earth  the  fainting  spirit  beats, 
Which  mounts  again  on  night's  sweet  breath  of  violets. 


172 


RÜCKERT. 


Through  heaven,  the  live-long  night,  I'm  floating  in  my 

dreams, 

And,  when  aroused,  my  room  a  scanty  limit  seems. 
Wake  up !  the  sun  presents  an  image  in  his  rays, 
How  man  can  shine  at  morn  to  his  Creator's  praise. 

#  *  # 

The  flowers  will  tell  to  thee  a  sacred,  mystic  story, 
How  moistened  earthy  dust  can  wear  celestial  glory. 
On  thousand  stems  is  found  the  love-inscription  graven, 
"  How  beautiful  is  earth  when  it  can  image  heaven  !  " 
Would'st  thou  first  pause  to  thank  thy  God  for  every 
pleasure, 

For  mourning  over  griefs  thou  wouldst  not  find  the 
leisure. 

0  heart,  but  try  it  once ;  'tis  easy  good  to  be, 
But  to  appear  so,  such  a  strain  and  misery  ! 
Who  hath  his  day's  work  done,  may  rest  him  as  he  will » 
O,  urge  thyself,  then,  quick,  thy  day's  work  to  fulfil. 
Of  what  each  one  should  be,  he  sees  the  form  and  rule, 
And,  till  he  reach  to  that,  his  joy  can  ne'er  be  full. 

O,  pray  for  life :  thou  feel'st  that,  with  those  faults  of 
thine, 

Thou  art  not  ready  yet  with  sons  of  God  to  shine. 
From  the  sun's  might  away  may  the  calm  planet  rove  ? 
How  easy,  then,  for  man  to  wander  from  God's  love ! 
Yet  from  each  circle's  point  to  the  centre  lies  a  track; 
And  there's  a  way  to  God  from  furthest  error  back. 
Whoso  mistakes  me  now,  but  spurs  me  on  to  make 
My  life  so  speak,  henceforth,  that  no  one  can  mistake. 
And  though,  throughout  the  world,  the  good  I  nowhere 
find, 

1  still  believe  in  it,  for  its  image  in  my  mind. 


STRUNG  PEARLS. 


173 


The  heart  that  loves  somewhat  is  not  abandoned  yet; 
The  smallest  fibre  serves  some  root  in  God  to  set. 

Because  she  bears  the  pearl,  that  makes  the  shell-fish 
sore  : 

Be  thankful  for  the  grief  that  but  exalts  thee  more. 
The  sweetest  fruit  grows  not  when  the  tree's  sap  is  full ; 
The  spirit  is  not  ripe,  till  meaner  powers  grow  dull. 
Spring  weaves  a  spell  of  odors,  colors,  sounds, 
Come,   autumn,  free  the  soul  from  these  enchanted 
bounds. 

My  tree  was  thick  with  shade;  O  blast,  thine  office  do, 
And   strip  the  foliage  off,  to  let  the   heaven  shine 
through. 

They're  wholly  blown  away,  bright  blossoms  and  green 
leaves ; — 

They're  brought  home  to  the  barn,  all  colorless,  the 
sheaves. 

#  *  * 

N.  L.  F. 


174 


RLCKERT. 


A  GAZELLE,  l 

Nightingales  of  spring  were  singing,  how  long  al- 
ready ! 

And  roses  in  the  fields  were  springing,  how  long  al- 
ready ! 

The  ruddy  Morn  her  bloody  banners,  every  new  day, 
Anew  across  the  earth   was  flinging,  how  long  al- 
ready ! 

Stars  within  the  concave  heaven,  and  sun  and  moon, 
Before  men's  eyes  their  course  were  winging,  how  long 
already ! 

And  to  men's  eyes,  as  to  the  flowers,  has  passing  time 
Their  opening  and  their  close  been  bringing,  how  long 
already ! 

And  to  the  hearts  of  men,  as  life  swelled  them  with 
breath, 

Came  hope's  delight  and  sorrow's  stinging,  how  long 
already  ! 

And  fame  and   lordship  —  soapy  bubbles  in  the  sun's 
blaze  — 

Were  rounding  bright,  —  asunder  springing,  —  how  long 
already  ! 

And  over  earth's  and  heaven's  limits,  nobly  aloft, 
The  spirit's  boundless  wish  was  swinging,  how  ^ong  al- 
ready ! 

The  soul,  that  through  the  soul  of  beauty  hopes  to  be 
free, 

1  See  Note  L. 


A  GAZELLE. 


175 


Feels  low  joys  lording  it,  and  kinging,  how  long  al- 
ready ! 

A  beam  from  heaven  has  smitten  me,  dimming  the  shine 
Of  all  the  world's  poor  spangle-stringing,  how  long  al. 
ready ! 

Lost  to  the  echo  is  the  forum's  noise  in  this  breast, 
Where  thine  all-silent  words  were  ringing,  how  long  al- 
ready ! 

No  lure  for  me  have  fortune's  nets  upon  life's  road ; 
I  rest  among  thine  elf-locks  clinging,  how  long  already  ! 

N.  L.  F. 


RÜCKERT. 


THE  DYING  FLOWER. 

Hope  !  thou  yet  shalt  live  to  see 

Vernal  sun  and  vernal  air;  • 
Such  the  hope  of  every  tree 

Stripped  by  autumn's  tempests  bare. 
Hidden  in  their  quiet  strength, 

Winter-long  their  germs  repose, 
Till  the  sap  starts  fresh  at  length, 

And  the  new-born  verdure  grows. 

"  Ah  !  no  mighty  tree  am  I, 

That  a  thousand  summers  lives, 
And,  its  winter  dream  gone  by, 

Spring-like  green  and  gladness  gives. 
I  am  but  an  humble  flower 

Wakened  by  the  kiss  of  May; 
There  is  left  no  trace  of  power, 

As,  shrouded  white,  I  drop  away." 

Since  thou,  then,  a  floweret  art, 

Modest  child,  of  gentle  kin, 
Hear  thou  this,  and  so  take  heart :  — 

Every  plant  has  seed  within. 
Be  it  that  the  wind  of  death 

Scatters  thee  with  blast  and  cold, 
Still  thou'lt  breathe  in  others'  breath, 

Thus  renewed  a  hundred  fold. 


THE  DYING  FLOWER. 


"  Yes,  as  I  shall  but  have  been, 

Others  like  me  soon  shalL  be ; 
Endless  is  the  general  green,  — 

Single  leaves  die  presently. 
Be  they  all  I  used  to  show; 

I  can  be  myself  no  more ; 
All  my  being  lives  in  now, 

Nought  behind  and  nought  before. 

"  Though  the  sun,  that  warms  me  yet, 

Dart  through  them  his  glances  bright, 
That  soothes  not  the  fate  that's  set, 

Dooming  me  to  endless  night. 
Sun,  already  them  that  follow 

Follovv'st  thou  with  glowing  eye  ; 
Mock  me  not  with  that  dim,  hollow, 

Frosty  glance  from  clouded  sky. 

"  Woe's  me,  that  I  felt  thy  blaze 

Kindling  me  to  my  short  day  ! 
That  I  met  thy  ardent  gaze 

Till  it  stole  my  life  away ! 
What  of  that  poor  life  remains 

From  thy  pity  I'll  withhold  ; 
I'll  avoid  thee,  and  my  pains 

Close  in  my  closed  self  upfold. 

"  Yet  these  icy  thoughts  relent, 
Melted  by  thee  to  a  tear ;  — 

Take,  O  take  my  breath  that's  spent, 
Everlasting,  to  thy  sphere. 


178 


RUCKERT. 


Yes,  thou  sunnest  all  the  sorrow 
Out  from  my  dark  heart  at  last ; 

Dying,  all  I  had  to  borrow 

I  thank  thee  for;  — now  all  is  past. 

"  For  every  gentle  note  of  spring; 

Each  summer's  gale  I  trembled  to; 
Each  golden  insect's  dancing  wing, 

That  gayly  round  my  leaflets  flew  ; 
For  eyes  that  sparkled  at  my  hues ; 

For  hearts  that  blessed  my  fragrancy, 
Made  but  of  tints  and  odorous  dews,  — 

Maker,  I  still  give  thanks  to  thee. 

"  Of  thy  world  an  ornament, 

Though  a  trifling  and  a  poor, 
I  to  grace  the  fields  was  sent, 

As  stars  bedeck  the  higher  floor. 
One  gasp  have  I  left  me  still, 

And  no  sigh  shall  that  be  found; 
One  look  yet  to  heaven's  high  hill, 

And  the  beauteous  world  around. 

"  Let  me  towards  thee  pour  my  soul, 

Fire-heart  of  this  lower  sphere ; 
Heaven,  thine  azure  tent  unroll ;  — 

Mine,  once  green,  hangs  wrinkled  here. 
Hail,  O  Spring,  thy  beaming  eye ! 

Hail,  O  Morn,  thy  wooing  breath ! 
Without  complaint  in  death  I  lie, 

If  without  hope  to  rise  from  death." 


N.  L.  F. 


THE  SUN  AND  THE  BROOK. 


THE  SUN  AND  THE  BROOK. 

The  Sun  he  spoke 

To  the  Meadow-Brook, 
And  said,  "I  sorely  blame  you; 

Through  every  nook 

The  wild-flower  folk 
You  hunt,  as  nought  could  shame  you. 

What  but  the  light 

Makes  them  so  bright,  — 
The  light  from  me  they  borrow  ? 

Yet  me  you  slight, 

To  get  a  sight 
At  them,  and  I  must  sorrow! 

Ah !  pity  take 

On  me,  and  make 
Your  smooth  breast  stiller,  clearer ; 

And,  as  I  wake 

In  the  blue  sky-lake, 
Be  thou,  O  Brook,  my  mirror ! " 

The  Brook  flowed  on, 

And  said  anon,  — 
"  Good  Sun,  it  should  not  grieve  you 

That,  as  I  run, 

I  gaze  upon 
The  motley  flowers,  and  leave  you. 


180 


RUCKERT. 


You  are  so  great 

In  your  heavenly  state, 
And  they  so  unpretending, 

On  you  they  wait, 

And  only  get 
The  graces  of  your  lending. 

But  when  the  sea 

Receiveth  me, 
From  them  I  must  me  sever ; 

I  then  shall  be 

A  glass  to  thee, 
Reflecting  thee  forever." 


SONG. 


181 


80NG. 

Of  songs  I  know  a-many, 
And  sing  what  listeth  me: 

'Tis  a  sweet  way  as  any 
To  have  variety. 

But  one  song  I  heard  lately, 

I  long  to  know  so  greatly, 
I'd  give  a  hundred  willingly. 

Of  late  I  saw  a  shepherd, 

The  grassy  vale  adown, 
Where  the  merry  brooklets  capered 

All  in  the  summer  sun, 
Under  a  beech-tree  laying, 
Lost  in  a  sweet  dream,  playing 

His  tune  a  slender  reed  upon. 

That  tune,  'twould  first  go  upward 

A  dozen  notes  or  so, 
And  then  it  would  go  downward, 

Then  o'er  again  once  mo'. 
That  song  to  him  was  heaven ; 
I  gladly  would  have  given 

All  mine  that  song  of  his  to  know. 
Q 


182 


RÜCKERT. 


Then  once  he  would  play  through  it, 
And  then  he'd  look  away ; 

Then  took't  again  and  blew  it ;  — 
I  saw  him  as  he  lay. 

He  played  there  little  heeding 

His  quiet  lambkins,  feeding; 

And  slowly  flew  the  summer  day. 


J.  S.  D. 


KLOPSTOCK. 


KLOPSTOCK.1 


THE  TWO  MUSES. 

I  saw  —  O,  tell  me,  saw  I  what  now  takes  place*? 
Beheld  I  the  future?  —  I  saw  the  muse  of  Germany, 
Side  by  side  with  her  of  Britain, 
Fly  with  hot  speed  to  the  goals  of  coronation. 

Two  goals,  dimly  gleaming,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
Bounded  the  race-ground.    O'er  one,  in  majesty, 
Oaks  cast  their  shadows ;  near  the  other 
Palm-trees  were  waving  in  evening  splendors. 

At  home  in  contest,  stepped  she  of  Albion 
Out  on  the  arena,  —  proudly  as  when,  of  old, 
So  matched  with  Grecian  muse  and  Roman, 
She  trod  the  hot  sand  for  the  prize  of  glory. 

There  stood  the  youthful,  trembling  combatant ; 
With  manly  emotion  she  trembled,  and  fiery, 
Flaming  blushes,  victory's  omens, 
Streamed  o'er  her  cheek,  and  her  golden  hair  flew. 

1  See  Note  M. 
Q  2 


186 


KLOPSTOCK. 


E'en  now,  with  labor,  fast  in  her  heaving  breast 

She  holds  the  breath  down;  bent  on  the  goal  she  hangs; 

She  seems  to  see  the  herald's  trumpet 

Rise  to  his  lips,  —  and  her  drunken  eye  swims. 

Proud  of  her  rival,  prouder  of  herself,  then 

Spake  the  lofty  Britoness,  and  measured,  with  noble  mien, 

Thee,  Thuiscona.  "  Yes,  by  the  Bards,  I 

Grew  up  with  thee  in  the  ancient  oak-grove. 

"  But  Fame  had  told  me,  thou  wert  not  living  now. 
O  muse,  forgive  me,  if  thou  immortal  art, 
Forgive,  that  now  so  late  I  learn  it ; 
But  at  the  goal  must  it  yet  be  taught  me ! 

"  Lo,  there  it  stands !  But  mark'st  thou  the  crowned  one 
So  far  beyond  it?  Maiden,  this  proud  reserve  — 
This  self-command  —  this  glance  of  fire 
Downward  to  earth  cast  —  I  know  its  meaning. 

"  Yet  weigh,  one  moment,  ere,  big  with  danger,  sounds 
Yon  herald's  trumpet !    Was  it  not  I,  who  once 
Measured  the  ground  with  her  of  Thermopylae, 
And  with  the  famed  of  the  seven  hills,  too  1 " 

She  spake.    The  herald  drew  nearer,  and  with  him 
came 

Swift  the  decisive  moment.  — "J  love  thee  !  " 
With  flaming  look  quick  spake  Teutcna ; 
"  Britoness,  yea,  I  do  wildly  love  thee; 


THE   TWO  MUSES. 


187 


"  Yet  more,  far  more  —  I  love  immortality 
And  yonder  palms!  Then  touch,  if  thy  genius 
So  wills  it,  touch  them  first ;  yet  the  moment 
When  thou  shalt  seize  it,  the  crown  is  mine  too. 

I  And,  O,  how  I  tremble !  O  ye  immortals, 
Haply  I  may  reach  the  proud  goal  before  thee. 
Then,  O  then  may  I  feel  thy  hot  breath 
Stir  my  loose  locks  as  thou  pantest  after." 

The  trumpet  rang.    They  flew  as  on  eagles'  wings. 
Far  along  the  race-ground  boiled  up  the  clouds  of  dust. 
I  looked  :  beyond  the  oak  yet  thicker 
Rolled  the  dark  mass,  and  my  eye  had  lost  them. 


188 


KLOPSTOCK. 


TO  YOUNG. 

Die,  prophetic  old  man,  die!  for  thy  branch  of  palm 
Long  hath  budded  and  bloomed  ;  long  has  the  tear  of  joy 
Stood  in  eyes  of  immortals, 
Waiting,  trembling  to  welcome  thee. 

Still  thou  tarriest?  and  hast  up  to  the  clouds,  e'en  now, 
Thine  own  monument  reared !  For  the  freethinker  sits 
Pensive,  solemnly  watching 
Those  night-hours  with  thee,  and  feels 

That  thy  deep-rolling  song,  bodeful  of  coming  doom, 
Sings  prophetic  to  him, — feels  all  that  Wisdom  means, 
When  she  speaks  of  the  judgment, 
And  the  trump  that  shall  wake  the  dead. 

Die  !  thou  hast  taught  me  to  know,  e'en  the  dread  name 
of  Death 

Like  a  jubilee-song  sounds  in  a  just  man's  mouth ; 
But  still  be  thou  my  teacher ; 
Die,  and  ever  my  eenius  be  ! 


HERMANN  AND  THUSNELDA. 


189 


HERMANN  AND  THUSNELDA.  1 

Ha  !  there  comes  he,  with  sweat,  with  blood  of  Romans, 
And  with  dust  of  the  fight  all  stained  !  O  never 

Saw  I  Hermann  so  lovely  ! 

Never  such  fire  in  his  eyes  ! 

Come  !  I  tremble  for  joy ;  hand  me  the  Eagle, 
And  the  red,  dripping  sword !  come,  breathe,  and  rest 
thee ; 

Rest  thee  here  in  my  bosom ; 
Rest  from  the  terrible  fight ! 

Rest  thee,  while  from  thy  brow  I  wipe  the  big  drops, 
And  the  blood  from  thy  cheek!  —  that  cheek,  how 
glowing  ! 

Hermann  !  Hermann  !  Thusnelda 

Never  so  loved  thee  before! 

No,  not  then,  when  thou  first,  in  old  oak-shadows, 
With  that  manly  brown  arm  didst  wildly  grasp  me ! 

Spell-bound  I  read  in  thy  look 

That  immortality,  then, 

Which  thou  now  hast  won.    Tell  to  the  forests, 
Great  Augustus,  with  trembling,  amidst  his  gods  now, 

Drinks  his  nectar;  for  Hermann, 

Hermann  immortal  is  found  ! 

1  See  Note  N. 


190 


KLOPSTOCK. 


"  Wherefore  curl'st  thou  my  hair?  Lies  not  our  father 
Cold  and  silent  in  death  ?  O,  had  Augustus 

Only  headed  his  army,  — 

He  should  lie  bloodier  there  !  " 

Let  me  lift  up  thy  hair ;  'tis  sinking,  Hermann; 
Proudly  thy  locks  should  curl  above  fhe  crown  now ! 

Sigmar  is  with  the  immortals ! 

Follow,  and  mourn  him  no  more  ! 


A.  L.  FOLLEN. 


A.  L.  FOLLEN. 


ARNOLD  STRUTHAN  OF  WINKELRIED.  1 


In  the  host  of  Unter walden  a  hero-child  I  see, 
High-towering  o'er  the  mightiest  of  them  that  mighty  be ; 
Majestic  as  God's  angel  on  Eden's  lawns  of  old, 
He  stands  in  lonely  grandeur,  almost  dreadful  to  behold. 

He  leans  upon  his  lance,  as  if  the  fight  to  him  were 
nought ; 

He  gazes  on  the  mountains,  he   sees  old  times  in 
thought, 

When  Ranz  des  V aches  resounded,  —  no  battle-trum- 
pet's cry,  — 

And  the  fathers  dwelt  so  peacefully, — till  foreign  pride 
swelled  high ! 

To  the  mansion  of  his  fathers  his  yearning  spirit  flees, 
Where,  circled  by  her  little  ones,  his  gentle  wife  he 
sees  ; 

With  tearful  eyes  and  heavy  heart  she  lifts  her  thoughts 
above, 

And  prays  for  him  whom  she  in  God  so  fervently  doth 
love. 

1  See  Note  O. 
R 


194 


A.  L.  FOLLEN. 


He  looks  through  sparks  and  dust-clouds  o'er  all  the 
battle-field ; 

He  sees  how  naked  valor  to  armed  skill  doth  yield ; 
And  now  he  sees  no  longer  —  thick  mists  his  sight  o'er- 
spread, 

As  when  in  clouds  a  mountain,  at  evening,  hides  its 
head. 

Ah,  deeply  was  this  Swiss-man  by  pangs  of  love  dis- 
tressed ; 

But  what  the  mighty  soul  resolved  within  that  swelling 
breast, 

No  earthly  tongue  e'er  chanted,  no  heart  had  dreamed 
the  deed, — 

For  this  man's  name  is  Arnold  Struthan  of  Winkelried! 

'Twas  his  forefather  Struthan,  the  famed,  whose  dar- 
ing hand 

The  dragon  slew,  the  terror  and  torment  of  the  land; 
What  none  had  dared  beside  him,  in  true,  chivalric 
mood, 

He  dared  and  did  for  herdsman's  sake  and  for  the  peas- 
ant's good. 

Another  of  his  fathers  on  Rütli's  meadow  swore, 
What  time,  above  the  lonely  lake,  on  that  green  temple- 
floor, 

In  pure,  angelic  beauty,  one  holy  moon-lit  night, 
The  imperishable  Forget-me-not  of  Switzerland  saw  j 
light. 


ARNOLD  STRUTHAN  OF  WINKELRIED.  195 

Sir  Arnold  loosed  the  armor  that  closely  bound  his 
breast ; 

He  stood  in  light  steel  panoply  arrayed  from  sole  to 

crest : 

Down  rang  the  heavy  armor  a-clattering  on  the  field, 
And  over  his  shoulders  the  hero  threw  his  mighty 

dragon-shield. 
*  *  *  *  * 

But  Arnold's  heart  was  fearless;    with  thunder-voice 

cries  he, 

"  Now,  courage,  ye  my  comrades !  look  steadfastly  on  me ! 
Think  of  my  wife  and  children;  I'll  make  a  lane  for 
you!" 

Then  springs  upon  the  foe,  like  him  who  erst  the 
dragon  slew. 

Then  seemed  the  hero's  form  to  grow  and  swell  to  giant 

size, 

And,  as  it  swells  and  towers,  the  sparks  dart  dreadful 

from  his  eyes ; 
One  leap  —  the  dragon-killer's  child  full  in  the  foe's 

face  sprang, 

And,  trembling  to  the  hero's  tread,  for  joy  the  old  Swiss 
earth  rang. 

Then  hung  upon  that  giant  the  two  eyeballs  of  the  fight ; 
Then  seemed  his  kindling  glances  like  lightning-shafts 
to  smite ; 

So  flashed  of  old  the  fires  which  God,  with  cloudy  frown, 
On  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  from  his  battlements  shot 
down. 


196 


A.   L.  FOLLEN. 


Now,  with  the  might  of  Samson,  his  long  arms  spreading, 

see, 

He  clasps  the  bristling  lances  of  Austria's  chivalry ; 
He  hugs  of  deaths  an  armful — O  love,  that  lov'st 
death's  pains ! 

Home  to  his  mighty  bosom  all  the  naked  points  he 
strains. 

Down  through  the  ranks  he  crashes,  a  giant  Alpine 
rock, 

And  the  forests  of  the  battle  are  crushed  beneath  the 
shock  : 

Thy  Arnold  falls ;  O  Unterwald,  thine  is  a  mother's 
wail ; 

Yet,  Austria,  wilder  quakes  thy  heart  beneath  its  iron 
mail. 

A  moment  of  amazement;  —  the  battle-thunders  die;  — 
Then,  with  one  mouth,  the  whole  Swiss  host  upshouted, 
"  Victory!  " 

Down  from  above  a  glittering  flood  of  weapons  pours 
amain  : 

"On,  on!  o'er  Arnold's  bridge,  now!  on,  on  through 
Struthan's  lane !  " 

And  o'er  the  neck  of  Arnold  on,  like  a  whirlwind's 
blast, 

Through  that  wide  gap,  the  battle-storm  of  Switzerland 

has  passed ; 

And  over  Arnold's  body  wild  rolls  the  battle-stream, 
And  Austria's  wall  of  iron  bursts  in  every  band  and 
seam. 


ARNOLD   STRUTHAN  OF   WINKELRIED.  197 

There  lay  the  mighty  hero,  like  the  misty  bridge  that 
lies 

Across  the  billowy   chasm  ;  the  blinding  spray-clouds 
rise ; 

It  thunders  from  below ;  the  arch  quakes  threateningly  ; 
Yet  the  bridge  bears  thee  safely  over  to  lovely  Italy. 

Alas,  that  the  glorious  rainbow,  which  bids  the  storm- 
war  cease, 

Before  heaven's  mild,  blue,  laughing  eye  beams  brightly 

forth  in  peace, 
When  our  eyes  have  scarcely  read  its  lines  of  promise 

in  the  sky, 

With  all  its  fair  and  holy  hues,  must  fade  away  and  die ! 


R  2 


198 


A.   L.  FOLLEN. 


PATRIOTIC  SONG. 

Sons  of  the  Father-land,  comrades  undaunted, 
O,  how  my  heart  with  love's  longing  hath  panted, 

Since  the  true-knot  of  our  union  we  wove  ! 

Hail  to  thee,  hail,  O  my  old  oak-grove ! 
Lovest  thou  Hermann,  the  savior  and  sire? 

Lov'st  thou  the  archers  of  Schwytz  and  Tyrol, 
Hofer  and  Tell,  and  that  whirlwind  of  fire, 

Luther,  old  Popedom's  Elias,  —  my  soul  ? 
And  him,  who,  crowned  with  thorns  and  bleeding, 

Tuned  his  harp  and  so  sweetly  sang  ? 
On  the  wing  of  the  trumpet's  glad  blast  he  ascended ; 
But  the  story  of  Körner  the  oak-forests  rended, 

When  Northland's  roaring  organ-clang 
Storm-like  rang, 
Proudly,  lovingly  rang ! 

Saw  ye  the  rose  in  her  loneliness  glowing? 

Ah,  before  Freedom's  warm  spring-breeze  was  blowing, 

Thy  land's  disgrace  smote  thee  like  autumn-wind  wild, 

Faithful  Louisa,  Thusnelda's  child ! 
Yet,  ere  the  grave-song  is  silent,  —  up-springing, 

The  souls  of  the  fathers  have  burst  the  tomb's  chain. 
Ha  !  how  the  trumpets  of  Hermann  are  ringing ! 

The  people  are  wielding  the  sceptre  again ! 
O  golden,  glowing,  kindling  hours 


PATRIOTIC  SONG. 


199 


When  Faith  and  Freedom  went  hand  in  hand ! 
Wild  in  the  powder-smoke  trembled  the  scale  :  then 
Rang  the  loud  paean;  hushed  was  the  wail  then  ; 
High  as  heaven  flashed  Liberty's  brand ! 
Flashed  —  and  died, 
O  Father-land ! 


Sons  of  the  Father-land,  partners  in  doom, 
The  fathers  are  silent  again  in  the  tomb; 

Wailings  are  heard  again ;  paeans  are  o'er ; 

The  bright  sun  is  shrouded  in  blackness  once  more. 
But  in  our  veins  youth's  warm  tide  is  still  streaming, 

Fresh  and  strong  as  the  roaring  Rhine ; 
See  on  the  mast  virtue's  palm-garland  gleaming! 

On,  brothers,  on,  for  your  cause  is  divine!  — 
Yes,  till  the  dams  of  hell  fly  asunder, 

We'll  thunder  along  with  a  torrent-like  might ! 
Firm  as  the  oaks  in  old  Teutoburg's  woods, 
Where  the  two-headed  eagles  are  nursing  their  broods, 

Stand  shoulder  to  shoulder :  the  storm's  at  its  height ! 
Come  forth  from  night, 
O  Hermann's  fight ! 


ARNDT 


ARNDT. 


THE  GERMAN'S  FATHER-LAND. 

Where  is  the  German's  Father-land? 

Is  Prussia  —  Swabia  that  blest  land? 

Is't  where,  by  the  Rhine,  the  rich  grape  glows 

Where  Moeve  to  the  Baltic  flows? 

O,  no  !  O,  no  !  O,  no  !  O,  no ! 

Far  wider  bounds  his  land  shall  show. 

Where  is  the  German's  Father-land? 
Is  it  Bavarian  —  Styrian  land? 
Is't  where  the  Marsh-men  drive  their  kine? 
Is't  where  the  Markers'  lances  shine  ? 
O,  no !  O,  no !  &lc. 

Where  is  the  German's  Father-land  ? 
Westphalian  —  Pomeranian  land  ? 
Is't  on  the  Downs,  'mid  sandy  heaps? 
Is't  where  the  sounding  Danube  sweeps? 
O,  no !  O,  no  !  &ic. 

Where  is  the  German's  Father-land  ? 
Come,  name  to  me  the  mighty  land. 
Is't  where  the  free-born  Switzers  dwell  ? 
The  land  and  people  please  me  well. 
Yet  no!  O,  no !  &c. 


204 


ARNDT. 


Where  is  the  German's  Father-land? 
Come,  name  to  me  the  mighty  land. 
Sure  Austria  is  its  honored  name  — 
A  country  rich  in  martial  fame. 
Yet  no  !  O,  no  !  &c. 

Where  is  the  German's  Father-land? 
Come,  name  to  me  the  mighty  land. 
Is't  what  the  Frenchman's  treachery  gains  — 
Steals  from  the  emperor's  wide  domains? 
O,  no  !  O,  no  !  &c. 

Where  is  the  German's  Father-land? 
Now,  then,  at  length,  name  me  the  land. 
"  Where'er  resounds  the  German  tongue, 
And  German  hymns  to  God  are  sung;  " 

There  it  must  be,  there  it  must  be ! 

Brave  German,  there  thy  country  see  ! 

There  is  the  German's  Father-land, 
Where,  as  an  oath,  they  press  the  hand  ; 
Where  Truth  sits  sparkling  in  the  eye, 
And  every  heart  with  love  beats  high  ; 
There  it  must  be,  &-c. 

There  is  the  German's  Father-land, 
Where  foreign  tricks  with  scorn  they  brand  ; 
Where  every  knave  a  foe  they  call, 
And  each  true  man  a  friend  to  all ; 

There  it  must  be,  there  it  must  be, 
The  whole — the  whole  of  Germany. 


the  German's  father-land. 

The  whole,  wide  German  land — O  God, 
Look  down  from  thy  serene  abode, 
Wake  in  each  heart  true  German  fire, 
With  patriot-zeal  each  soul  inspire, 

That  ours  may  be  —  for  ours  must  be 
The  whole,  the  whole  of  Germany. 


HERDER. 


HERDER. 


THE  ORGAN. 

O,  tell  me  who  contrived  this  wondrous  frame, 

Full  of  the  voices  of  all  living  things, — 

This  temple,  which,  by  God's  own  breath  inspired, 

So  boldly  blends  the  heart-appalling  groan 

Of  wailing  Misereres  with  the  soft 

Tones  of  the  plaintive  flute,  and  cymbal's  clang, 

And  roar  of  jubilee,  and  hautboy's  scream, 

With  martial  clarion's  blast,  and  with  the  call 

Of  the  loud-sounding  trump  of  victory. 

From  lightest  shepherd's  reed  the  strain  ascends 
To  tymbal's  thunder  and  the  awakening  trump 
Of  judgment.    Graves  are  opening !  Hark,  the  dead 
Are  stirring ! 

How  the  tones  hang  hovering  now 
On  all  creation's  mighty,  outspread  wings, 
Expectant,  and  the  breezes  murmur  !    Hark ! 
Jehovah  comes  !  He  comes  !  His  thunder  speaks  ! 

In  the  soft-breathing,  animated  tone 
Of  human  words  speaks  the  All-merciful 
s2 


210 


HERDER. 


At  length;  the  trembling  heart  responds  to  him  ; 
Till,  now,  all  voices  and  all  souls  at  once 
Ascend  to  heaven,  upon  the  clouds  repose  — 
One  Hallelujah  !  — Bow,  bow  down  in  prayer  ! 

Apollo  tuned  the  light  guitar ;  the  son 
Of  Maia  strung  the  lyre;  mighty  Pan 
Hollowed  the  flute.    Who  was  this  mightiest  Pan, 
That  blent  the  breath  of  all  creation  here? 


Cecilia,  noblest  of  the  Roman  maids, 
Disdained  the  music  of  the  feeble  strings, 
Praying  within  her  heart,  "  O  that  I  might 
But  hear  the  song  of  praise,  the  which,  of  old, 
Those  holy  three1  sang  in  the  glowing  flames, — 
The  sang  of  the  creation  !  " 


An  angel  who  had  oft  appeared  to  her 

In  prayer,  and  touched  her  ear.    Entranced,  she  heard 

Creation's  song.    Stars,  sun  and  moon,  and  all 

Heaven's  host,  and  light  and  darkness,  day  and  night, 

The  rolling  seasons,  wind  and  frost  and  storm, 

And  dew  and  rain,  hoar-frost  and  ice  and  snow, 

Mountain  and  valley  in  their  spring  attire, 

And  fountains,  streams  and  seas,  and  rock  and  wood, 

And  all  the  birds  of  heaven  and  tribes  of  earth, 

And  every  thing  that  hath  breath,  praised  the  Lord, 

The  holy  and  the  merciful. 


Then  there  came 


She  sank 

In  adoration :  "  Now,  O  angel,  might  I 
But  hear  an  echo  of  this  song !  " 


Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abednego. 


THE  ORGAN. 


211 


With  speed 
He  sought  the  artist  whom  Bezaleel's 
Devoted  soul  inspired  ;  in  his  hand 
He  placed  the  measure  and  the  number.  Soon 
Uprose  an  edifice  of  harmonies. 
The  Gloria  of  angels  rang  ;  with  one 
According  voice,  great  Christendom  intoned 
Her  lofty  Credo,  blessed  bond  of  souls. 

And  when,  at  holy  sacrament,  the  chant, 
"  He  comes !   Blessed  be  he  who  cometh  !  "  rang, 
The  spirits  of  the  saints  came  down  from  heaven, 
And  took  the  offering  in  devotion.  Earth 
And  heaven  became  a  choir ;  the  reprobate 
Shook,  at  the  temple's  door,  and  seemed  to  hear 
The  trump  whose  clang  proclaimed  the  day  of  wrath. — 

With  all  the  Christian  hearts  Cecilia 
Rejoiced,  for  she  had  found  what  every  heart 
Seeks  with  strong  yearning  in  the  hour  of  prayer, — 
Union  of  spirits  —  Christian  unity. 

"  How  shall  I  name,"  said  she,  "  this  many-armed 
River  which  seizes  us  and  bears  us  on 
To  the  wide  sea  of  the  eternities  1 " 
"  Call  it,"  the  angel  said,  "  what  thou  didst  wish  ; 
Call  it  the  Organ  of  the  mighty  soul, 
Which  sleeps  in  all,  which  stirs  all  nations'  hearts, 
Which  yearns  to  intone  the  everlasting  song 
Of  universal  nature,  and  to  find 
In  richest  labyrinth  of  hearts  and  sounds 
Devotion's  richest,  fullest  harmony." 


RICHTER. 


RICHTER.1 


A  SCENE  IN  THE  POLAR  REGIONS. 
FROM  THE  PROSE   OF  "  TITAN." 

Far  in  the  north,  behind  the  Orcades, 
The  setting  sun  a  twilight  glimmer  shed , 
Eastward  afar  the  coasts  of  men  were  seen 
Dim,  shadowy,  and  spectral ;  like  a  still, 
Broad  land  of  spirits  lay  the  vacant  sea 
Beneath  the  empty  heavens ;  —  here  and  there 
Perchance  a  vessel  skimmed  the  watery  waste, 
Like  a  white-winged  sea-bird ;  but  it  moved 
Too  pale  and  small  beneath  the  veil  of  space. 
Sublime  and  awful  solitude !  the  heart, 
As  it  broods  over  thee,  beats  fast,  and  feels 
Ennobled!  —  Thou,  too,  goest  forth,  pale  sun; 
Like  a  white  angel,  goest  down  to  visit 
The  silent,  ice-walled  cloister  of  the  pole, 
And,  drawing  after  thee  thy  bridal  garment, 
That  floats  in  gold  upon  the  weltering  wave, 
Veilest  thyself  around  !  Where  art  thou  now, 
Pale  one  in  rosy  robes?  Wilt  glimmer  forth 
Again  into  a  warm  and  glowing  eye 


1  See  Note  P. 


RICHTER. 


Among  the  ice-fields?  —  Standing  here,  I  gaze 
Down  on  the  dreary  winter  of  the  world. 
How  dumb  and  endless  is  it  down  below  ! 
The  almighty,  outstretched  giant  stirs  himself 
In  all  his  thousand  limbs,  and  wrinkles  up, 
And  nothing  remains  great  before  him,  save 
His  Father,  the  great  Heaven  !  —  Mighty  Son ! 
Wilt  lead  me  to  the  Father,  when,  at  last, 

I  come  to  thee  ?  

Lo,  what  a  gorgeous  spectacle  !  Aurora 
Upon  the  ruddy  evening  twilight  glows, 
With  fast  increasing  light.    W7hat  can  it  be 
That  rends  away  so  suddenly  the  dark 
Shroud  of  the  watery  Orcus?  How  the  shores 
Of  men  like  golden  morning  blaze !  O,  art  thou 
Already  come  to  us  again,  thou  fair, 
Majestic  Sun,  so  young  and  rosy-red  ? 
And  wilt  thou  journey  kindly  yet  once  more 
A  long  day's  journey  o'er  the  fields  of  men?  — 
Glow  upward,  then,  immortal  one!  —  I  stand 
Yet  cold  and  pale  on  my  horizon  :  soon 
I  must  go  down  to  the  dark  realms  of  ice. 
But  shall  I,  too,  like  him,  O  God,  arise 
More  warm  and  bright  again,  to  journey  through 
A  long,  bright  day  in  thy  eternity  ? 


P  F  £  F  F  E  L . 


PFEFFEL. 


THE  NOBLEMAN  AND  THE  PENSIONER. 

"Old  man,  God  bless  you!  does  your  pipe  taste  sweetly? 

A  beauty,  by  my  soul ! 
A  red  clay  flower-pot,  rimmed  with  gold  so  neatly ! 

What  ask  you  for  the  bowl?  " 

"  O  sir,  that  bowl  for  worlds  I  would  not  part  with ; 

A  brave  man  gave  it  me, 
Who  won  it  —  now  what  think  you?  —  of  a  bashaw 

At  Belgrade's  victory. 

"  There,  sir,  ah!  there  was  booty  worth  the  showing  — 

Long  life  to  Prince  Eugene  ! 
Like  after-grass  you  might  have  seen  us  mowing 

The  Turkish  ranks  down  clean." 

"  Another  time  I'll  hear  your  story  ;  — 

Come,  old  man,  be  no  fool  ; 
Take  these  two  ducats,  —  gold  for  glory, — 

And  let  me  have  the  bowl !  " 

"  I'm  a  poor  churl,  as  you  may  say,  sir; 
My  pension's  all  I'm  worth  : 


220 


PFEFFEL. 


Yet  I'd  not  give  that  bowl  away,  sir, 
For  all  the  gold  on  earth. 

"  Just  hear  now !  Once,  as  we  hussars,  all  merry, 

Hard  on  the  foe's  rear  pressed, 
A  blundering  rascal  of  a  janizary 

Shot  through  our  captain's  breast. 

"  At  once  across  my  horse  I  hove  him,  — 

The  same  would  he  have  done,  — 
And  from  the  smoke  and  tumult  drove  him 

Safe  to  a  nobleman. 

"  I  nursed  him,  and,  before  his  end,  bequeathing 

His  money  and  this  bowl 
To  me,  he  pressed  my  hand,  just  ceased  his  breathing, 

And  so  he  died,  brave  soul ! 

"  The  money  thou  must  give  mine  host  —  so  thought  I  - 

Three  plunderings  suffered  he: 
And,  in  remembrance  of  my  old  friend,  brought  I 

The  pipe  away  with  me. 

"  Henceforth  in  all  campaigns  with  me  I  bore  it, 

In  flight  or  in  pursuit  ; 
It  was  a  holy  thing,  sir,  and  I  wore  it 

Safe-sheltered  in  my  boot. 

"  This  very  limb,  I  lost  it  by  a  shot,  sir, 

Under  the  walls  of  Prague  : 
First  at  my  precious  pipe,  be  sure,  1  caught,  sir, 

And  then  picked  up  my  leg." 


THE  NOBLEMAN  AND  THE  PENSIONER.  221 

"  You  move  me  even  to  tears,  old  sire  : 
What  was  the  brave  man's  name  ? 

Tell  me,  that  I,  too,  may  admire, 
And  venerate  his  fame." 

"They  called  him  only  the  brave  Walter; 

His  farm  lay  near  the  Rhine."  — 
"God  bless  your  old  eyes!  'twas  my  father, 

And  that  same  farm  is  mine. 

"Come,  friend,  you've  seen  some  stormy  weather; 

With  me  is  now  your  bed ; 
We'll  drink  of  Walter's  grapes  together, 

And  eat  of  Walter's  bread." 

"Now  —  done!  I  march  in,  then,  to-morrow; 

You're  his  true  heir,  I  see ; 
And  when  I  die,  your  thanks,  kind  master, 

The  Turkish  pipe  shall  be." 


222 


PFEFFEL. 


THE  SWAN. 

See  how  majestic,  o'er  the  lake, 

The  kingly  swan  sails  by  ! 
Free  as  the  soul  arrayed  in  robes 

Of  spotless  purity. 

Beneath  him  oft  the  abysses  sound  ; 

In  vain  they  roar  and  rave : 
Scorning  their  rage,  he  sails,  and  smiles 

E'en  on  the  yawning  grave. 

Thus  freely,  fearlessly  he  rides 

Life's  joyous  hours  along  ; 
At  evening  dies,  and  his  last  breath 

Is  a  triumphal  song. 

O  thou  whose  power  hath  made  us  both, 

Let  him  my  image  be! 
Thus  may  my  soul  be  ever  clad 

In  snow-white  purity ! 

O,  keep  me  pure,  till  thou  shalt  end 
These  few  and  fleeting  days! 

Then  may  my  last,  faint,  quivering  tones 
A  hallelujah  raise ! 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SPHERES. 


223 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SPHERES. 

A  youth,  by  chance,  one  day,  o'er  Plato  poring, 

About  a  music  of  the  spheres  had  read. 

"  Ha!  I  must  hear  it,"  to  himself  he  said, 
And  straightway  fell  upon  his  knees,  imploring 
Gisat  Jupiter  his  wishes  to  fulfil. 
"  Rash  boy,"  said  Jove,  "  thou  canst  not  have  thy  will ; 
The  heavenly  concert  of  the  spheres 
Is  not  for  mortal  ears."  — 
He  ceased  not  still  to  tease  the  god, 

Till  Zeus  at  last  no  more  could  bear  it, 

And  so  resolved  to  let  him  hear  it. 
Accordingly  he  gives  the  nod : 
The  youth  hears  suddenly  through  all  the  skies  — 
And  what?  —  a  frightful  din  and  discord  rise. 
A  thousand-voiced  song 
Sweeping  on  Desolation's  wings  along, 
With  all  the  thunders  ever  hurled 
By  hand  of  Vengeance  on  the  world, 
Were  but  the  buzzing  of  a  bee 
To  this  tempestuous  round  of  melody. 
"  O  Zeus,  what  is  it  rends  my  ears?" 

The  youth  exclaims,  all  stiff  and  pale  ; 
"  Is  that  the  music  of  the  spheres  ? 

So  bellowed  never  hungry  hell  ! 


224 


PFEFFEL. 


Ha,  wouldst  thou  only  strike  me  deaf, 
Thou  frightful  god,  'twere  some  relief." 
Jove  from  a  cloud  calls  down  in  turn, 
"  Men  are  not  gods,  thou  here  canst  learn 
'Tis  dreadful  discord  to  thy  ears, 
To  mine  —  the  music  of  the  spheres." 


i 


STOLBERG. 


STOLBERG. 


TO  THE  SEA. 

Thou  boundless,  shining,  glorious  sea. 
With  ecstasy  I  gaze  on  thee ; 
Joy,  joy  to  him  whose  early  beam 
Kisses  thy  lip,  bright  ocean-stream. 

Thanks  for  the  thousand  hours,  old  sea, 
Of  sweet  communion  held  with  thee ; 
Oft  as  I  gazed,  thy  billowy  roll 
Woke  the  deep  feelings  of  my  soul. 

Drunk  with  the  joy,  thou  deep-toned  sea, 
My  spirit  swells  to  heaven  with  thee ; 
Or,  sinking  with  thee,  seeks  the  gloom 
Of  nature's  deep,  mysterious  tomb. 

At  evening,  when  the  sun  grows  red, 
Descending  to  his  watery  bed, 
The  music  of  thy  murmuring  deep 
Soothes  e'en  the  weary  earth  to  sleep. 

Then  listens  thee  the  evening-star, 
So  sweetly  glancing  from  afar ; 
And  Luna  hears  thee,  when  she  breaks 
Her  light  in  million-colored  flakes. 


228 


STOLBERG. 


Oft,  when  the  noonday  heat  is  o'er, 
I  seek  with  joy  the  breezy  shore, 
Sink  on  thy  boundless,  billowy  breast, 
And  cheer  me  with  refreshing  rest. 

The  poet,  child  of  heavenly  birth, 
Is  suckled  by  the  mother  Earth ; 
But  thy  blue  bosom,  holy  sea, 
Cradles  his  infant  fantasy. 

The  old  blind  minstrel  on  the  shore 
Stood  listening  thy  eternal  roar, 
And  golden  ages,  long  gone  by, 
Swept  bright  before  his  spirit's  eye. 

On  wing  of  swan  the  holy  flame 
Of  melodies  celestial  came, 
And  Iliad  and  Odyssey 
Rose  to  the  music  of  the  sea.1 


1  See  Note  Q. 


THE  SWABIAN  WARRIOR'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SON.  229 


THE  OLD  SWABIAN  WARRIOR'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SON. 
A   SONG   OF  THE  THIRTEENTH  CENTURY. 

Son,  I  give  my  spear  to  thee; 
'Tis  too  heavy,  now,  for  me ; 
Take  the  battle-sword  and  shield, 
Mount  my  steed,  and  forth  to  field. 

See  these  whitened  locks;  the  helm 
Fifty  years  hath  covered  them; 
Every  year  a  fight  hath  made 
Blunt  my  battle-axe  and  blade. 

Old  Count  Rudolph,  for  reward, 
Gave  me  axe,  and  spear,  and  sword ; 
I  had  served  the  count  alway, 
And  despised  Prince  Henry's  pay. 

When,  in  Freedom's  cause,  the  blood 
Failed  his  right  arm,  Rudolph  stood, 
And  the  might  of  his  left  hand 
Did  alone  the  Franks  withstand. 

Gird  thee  now  to  meet  the  fray; 
Conrad  comes  in  stern  array. 
O  my  son,  thy  arm  must  be 
Strength  and  solace  now  to  me. 
u 


230 


STOLBERG. 


Never  draw  this  sword  in  vain 
For  thy  sires  on  battle-plain ; 
Watch  and  dart  with  eagle's  might; 
Be  a  thunderbolt  in  fight. 

Seek  the  battle's  heaviest  shock; 
Meet  it  firm  as  ocean-rock; 
Spare  the  suppliant,  lying  low; 
Hew  in  twain  the  stubborn  foe. 

When  thy  banner  floats  in  vain 
O'er  thy  faint  and  staggering  train, 
Then  do  thou,  a  steadfast  tower, 
Brave  the  gathered  foemen's  power. 

By  the  sword  thy  brothers  died,  — 
Seven  sons,  —  their  country's  pride. 
Sunk  in  grief,  thy  mother  lay 
Dumb  and  stiff,  and  passed  away. 

I  am  feeble  now,  and  lone; 
Yet  would  thy  disgrace,  my  son, 
On  thy  father's  heart-strings  fall 
Seven  times  heavier  than  all. 

Fear  not,  then,  though  death  be  nigh 
On  thy  God  in  faith  rely ; 
So  thou  bravely  fight,  my  boy, 
Thy  old  father  dies  with  joy. 


THE  WIFE. 


THE  WIFE. 

Happy  he  to  whom  kind  Heaven, 
Rich  in  grace,  a  wife  hath  given, 
Virtuous,  wise,  and  formed  for  love, 
Gentle,  guileless  as  a  dove. 

Let  him  thank  his  God  for  this 
Pure,  o'erflowing  cup  of  bliss; 
Pain  may  never  linger  near, 
With  such  friend  to  soothe  and  cheer. 

She,  like  moonlight,  mild  and  fair, 
Smiles  away  each  gloomy  care, 
Kisses  dry  man's  secret  tears, 
And  with  flowers  his  pathway  cheers. 

When  his  boiling  heart  heaves  high, 
Flashing  fire  from  his  eye, — 
When  kind  Friendship  seeks  in  vain 
Passion's  wild  career  to  rein,  — 

Then  her  gentle  step  is  near ; 
Softly  drops  her  soothing  tear, 
As  when  evening  dew  comes  down 
On  the  meadows,  scorched  and  brown. 


232 


STOLBERG. 


Some  have  sought  their  bliss  in  gold ; 
Some  for  fame  their  peace  have  sold ; 
Gold  and  glory  in  the  hand 
Crumble  like  a  ball  of  sand. 

Heaven  sends  man  the  faithful  wife ; 
Life  without  her  is  not  life ; 
And  when  life  is  o'er,  her  love 
Gilds  a  brighter  scene  above. 


CLAUDIUS. 


CLAUDIUS. 


WINTER. 

A  SONG   TO  BE  SüNG  BEHIND  THE  STOVE. 

Old  Winter  is  the  man  for  me  — 
Stout-hearted,  sound,  and  steady ; 

Steel  nerves  and  bones  of  brass  hath  he ; 
Come  snow,  come  blow,  he's  ready  ! 

If  ever  man  was  well,  'tis  he ; 

He  keeps  no  fire  in  his  chamber, 
And  yet  from  cold  and  cough  is  free 

In  bitterest  December. 

He  dresses  him  out-doors  at  morn, 
Nor  needs  he  first  to  warm  him  ; 

Toothache  and  rheumatis'  he'll  scorn, 
And  colic  don't  alarm  him. 

In  summer,  when  the  woodland  rings, 
He  asks,  "  What  mean  these  noises  ?  "  — 

Warm  sounds  he  hates,  and  all  warm  things 
Most  heartily  despises. 


CLAUDIUS. 


But  when  the  fox's  bark  is  loud  ; 

When  the  bright  hearth  is  snapping; 
When  children  round  the  chimney  crowd, 

All  shivering  and  clapping;  — 

When  stone  and  bone  with  frost  do  break, 
And  pond  and  lake  are  cracking, — 

Then  you  may  see  his  old  sides  shake, 
Such  glee  his  frame  is  racking. 

Near  the  north  pole,  upon  the  strand, 

He  has  an  icy  tower ; 
Likewise  in  lovely  Switzerland 

He  keeps  a  summer  bower. 

So  up  and  down  —  now  here  —  now  there 

His  regiments 1  manoeuvre ; 
When  he  goes  by,  we  stand  and  stare, 

And  cannot  choose  but  shiver. 

1  See  Note  R. 


NIGHT-SONG. 


NIGHT-SONG. 

The  moon  is  up,  in  splendor, 
And  golden  stars  attend  her ; 

The  heavens  are  calm  and  bright 
Trees  cast  a  deepening  shadow ; 
And  slowly  off  the  meadow 

A  mist  is  rising,  silver-white. 

Night's  curtains  now  are  closing 
Round  half  a  world,  reposing 

In  calm  and  holy  trust ; 
All  seems  one  vast,  still  chamber, 
Where  weary  hearts  remember 

No  more  the  sorrows  of  the  dust. 


GLEIM. 


GLEIM. 


THE  INVITATION. 

I  have  a  cottage  by  the  hill ; 

It  stands  upon  a  meadow  green ; 
Behind  it  flows  a  murmuring  rill, 

Cool-rooted  moss  and  flowers  between. 

Beside  the  cottage  stands  a  tree, 

That  flings  its  shadow  o'er  the  eaves; 

And  scarce  the  sunshine  visits  me, 

Save  when  a  light  wind  rifts  the  leaves. 

A  nightingale  sings  on  a  spray 

Through  the  sweet  summer  time  night-long, 
And  evening  travellers,  on  their  way, 

Linger  to  hear  her  plaintive  song. 

Thou  maiden  with  the  yellow  hair, 
The  winds  of  life  are  sharp  and  chill ; 

Wilt  thou  not  seek  a  shelter  there, 
In  yon  lone  cottage  by  the  hill  ? 

S.  H.  W. 


v 


242 


GLEIM. 


WAR-SONG. 

FROM  THE   SEVEN  YEARS'  WAR,  UNDER  FREDERICK  THE  GUEi 

War  is  my  song !  Since  all  the  world 

Will  war,  let  war  resound ! 
Berlin  be  Sparta!  Prussia's  chief 

With  fame  and  victory  crowned ! 

I'll  gladly  take  the  lyre  in  hand 

His  actions  to  extol, 
When,  at  the  last,  my  bloody  brand 

Hangs  idly  on  the  wall. 

But  now  I  raise  the  battle-song 

With  his  heroic  clan, 
Where  trump  and  drum  ring  loud  and  long 

'Mid  shock  of  steed  and  man, — 

And  march,  a  valiant  grenadier ; 

While  Frederick  fires  my  soul, 
What  care  I,  though  about  my  ear 

The  cannon-thunders  roll  ? 

I  fall  a  hero  ;  e'en  in  death 

Lift  high  my  threatening  brand, 

And,  dying,  win  the  immortal  wreath, 
And  save  my  Father-land. 


WAR-SO  MG. 


243 


But  if  such  lot  should  ne'er  be  mine, 

Stern  Mars,  to  die  for  thee, 
Nor  in  the  starry  tent  to  shine, 

Apollo,  thine  I'll  be. 

Behold,  then,  Frederick's  grenadier, 

The  glory  of  the  state, 
The  Horace  of  the  German  lyre, 

And  poet  laureate. 

Then  "God  and  Frederick!  "  be  the  cry  — 
Proud  song  \  —  no  meaner  thing  : 

Gaze  on  the  sun  with  eagle's  eye, 
And  soar  with  eagle's  wing. 


G.   P.  SCHMIDT. 


v  a 


SCHMIDT. 


THE  STRANGER'S  EVENING-SONG. 

I  come  down  from  the  mountain-height ; 
Calm  vale  and  murmuring  sea  invite  ; 1 
I  wander  on  in  still  despair, 
And  every  sigh  seems  asking,  "  Where?" 

The  sun  shines  round  me  here  so  cold, 
The  flowers  look  faded,  life  is  old, 
And  what  they  say  is  empty  air ; 
I  am  a  stranger  every  where. 

Where  art  thou,  O  my  promised  laud, 
Long-sought,  far  off,  yet  still  at  hand ; 
Bright  land  of  hope,  so  green  and  fair, 
Land  where  my  roses  scent  the  air ;  — 

Where  oft  in  dream  my  spirit  flies, 
And  where  my  slumbering  dead  arise  ; 
The  land  that  speaks  my  speech;  the  land 
Where  loved  ones  wait  to  grasp  my  hand  ! 


1  See  Note  S. 


248 


SCHMIDT. 


I  wander  on  in  still  despair, 
And  every  sigh  seems  asking,  "  Where?" 
The  whispering  breeze  breathes  back  a  sound 
"  There,  where  thou  art  not,  bliss  is  found  !  " 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 


249 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 
A  FREE  VERSION. 

Before  all  lands,  in  east  or  west, 
I  love  my  native  land  the  best ; 

With  God's  best  gifts  'tis  teeming ; 
No  gold  nor  jewels  here  are  found, 
Yet  men  of  noble  soul  abound, 

And  eyes  of  joy  are  gleaming. 

Before  all  tongues,  in  east  or  west, 
I  love  my  native  tongue  the  best ; 

Though  not  so  smoothly  spoken, 
Nor  woven  with  Italian  art, 
Yet  when  it  speaks  from  heart  to  heart, 

The  word  is  never  broken. 

Before  all  people,  east  or  west, 
I  love  my  countrymen  the  best  — 

A  race  of  noble  spirit. 
A  vigorous  mind,  a  generous  heart 
To  virtue  bound,  yet  free  from  art, 

They  from  their  sires  inherit. 

To  east  and  west  I  reach  my  hand  ; 
My  heart  I  give  my  native  land; 


250 


SCHMIDT 


I  seek  her  good  —  her  glory  ; 
I  honor  every  nation's  name, 
Respect  their  fortunes  and  their  fame, 

But  1  love  the  land  that  bore  me.  * 


LANGBEIN. 


LANGBEIN. 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  LIFE. 

Full  many  a  poet,  whose  bones  are  now  bleaching, 
That  life  is  a  journey,  was  often  found  preaching ; 
Yet  none,  that  I  know  of,  has  named,  to  this  day, 
The  several  stages  that  lie  on  the  way. 

And  first,  through  the  valley  of  childhood  when  gliding, 
We  see  no  dark  cares  by  the  road-side  lie  hiding; 
A  beautiful  mist  overshadows  the  eye, 
And,  gazing  on  flowers,  "  How  lovely  !  "  we  cry. 

Our  hearts  they  beat  high  as  we  come  to  the  second, 
Now  youngsters  and  maidens,  whose  thoughts  are  just 
wakened  ; 

Here  Love  mounts  the  box,  and  along  with  us  rides ; 
Now  sweet  and  now  bitter  the  fare  he  provides. 

And  next  we  go  jolting  away  in  the  carriage 
Along  the  rough  roads  of  the  country  of  marriage, 
Where  oft  sundry  children,  to  vex  us  the  more, 
Come  crying  for  bread  to  the  very  stage  door. 

w 


254 


LANGBEIN. 


The  last  is  more  troublesome  still  than  the  others 
For  tottering  old  men  and  decrepit  old  mothers  : 
Here  Death  mounts  the  coach-box,  and,  seizing  the  rein, 
Drives  wildly  away  over  mountain  and  plain. 

Sometimes  this  postilion  is  even  seen  driving, 
In  his  hurry,  a  traveller  more  youthful  and  thriving; 
Yet  he  drives  to  the  mansion  of  peace  every  one  — 
Well,  then,  if  it  be  so,  good  coachman,  drive  on. 


HABICH  AND  HÄTTICH. 


255 


HABICH  AND  HÄTTICH; 

OR, 

A  BIRD   IN  THE   HAND'S  WORTH  TWO  IN  THE  BUSH. 

There  are  two  little  songsters  well  known  in  the  land; 

Their  names  are  I-have  and  O-had-I; 
I-have  will  come  tamely  and  perch  on  your  hand, 

But  O-had-I  will  mock  you  most  sadly. 

I-have,  at  first  sight,  is  less  fair  to  the  eye, 

But  his  worth  is  by  far  more  enduring 
Than  a  thousand  O-had-I's,  that  sit  far  and  high 

On  roofs  and  on  trees,  so  alluring. 

Full  many  a  golden  egg  this  bird  will  lay, 
And  sing  you,  "  Be  cheery  !  be  cheery  !  " 

O,  merrily,  then,  will  the  day  glide  away, 
And  sweet  shall  your  sleep  be,  when  weary. 

But  let  an  O-had-I  once  take  your  eye, 

And  a  longing  to  catch  him  once  seize  you, — 

He'll  give  you  no  comfort  nor  rest  till  you  die ; 
Life-long  he'll  torment  you  and  tease  you. 

He'll  keep  you  all  day  running  up  and  down  hill, 
Now  racing,  now  panting  and  creeping; 

While  far  overhead,  this  sweet  bird,  at  his  will, 
With  his  golden  plumage  is  sweeping. 


25G 


LANGBEIN. 


Then  every  wise  man,  who  attends  to  my  song, 
Will  count  his  I-have  a  choice  treasure, 

And,  whene'er  an  O-had-I  comes  flying  along, 
Will  just  let  him  fly  at  his  pleasure. 


GELLERT. 


2 


GELLERT. 


THE  WIDOW. 
A  TALE. 

Dorinda's  youthful  spouse, 

Whom  as  herself  she  loved,  and  better,  too,  — 
"  Better !  "  —  methinks  I  hear  some  caviller  say, 
With  scornful  smile  ;  but  let  him  smile  away  ! 

A  true  thing  is  not  therefore  the  less  true, 
Let  laughing  cavillers  do  what  they  may. 
Suffice  it,  death  snatched  from  Dorinda's  arms  — 
Too  early  snatched,  in  all  his  glowing  charms  — 
The  best  of  husbands  and  the  best  of  men; 
And  I  can  find  no  words  —  in  vain  my  pen, 
Though  dipped  in  briny  tears,  would  fain  portray, 

In  lively  colors,  all  the  young  wife  felt, 

As  o'er  his  couch  in  agony  she  knelt, 
And  clasped  the  hand,  and  kissed  the  cheek,  of  clay. 
The  priest,  whose  business  'twas  to  soothe  her,  came  ; 
All  friendship  came  —  in  vain; 
The  more  they  soothed,  the  more  Dorinda  cried. 
They  had  to  drag  her  from  the  dead  one's  side. 
A  ceaseless  wringing  of  hands 
Was  all  she  did  ;  one  piteous  "  alas !  " 
The  only  sound  that  from  her  lips  did  pass 


260 


«ELLERT. 


Full  four-and-twenty  hours  thus  she  lay. 

Meanwhile,  a  neighbor  o'er  the  way 

Had  happened  in,  well  skilled  in  carving  wood. 

He  saw  Dorinda's  melancholy  mood, 

And,  partly  at  her  own  request, 

Partly  to  show  his  reverence  for  the  Blessed, 

And  save  his  memory  from  untimely  end, 

Resolved  to  carve  in  wood  an  image  of  his  friend. 

Success  the  artist's  cunning  hand  attended ; 

With  most  amazing  speed  the  work  was  ended  ; 

And  there  stood  Stephen,  large  as  life. 
A  masterpiece  soon  makes  its  way  to  light ; 
The  folk  ran  up  and  screamed,  so  soon  as  Stephen 

met  their  sight, 
"  Ah,  Heavens  !  ah,  there  he  is.    Yes,  yes,  'tis  he  ! 

0  happy  artist !  happy  wife  ! 

Look  at  the  laughing  features  !  Only  see 

The  open  mouth,  that  seems  as  if 'twould  speak! 

1  never  saw  before,  in  all  my  life, 

Such  nature  —  no,  I  vow,  there  could  not  be 
A  truer  likeness  ;  so  he  looked  to  me, 
When  he  stood  godfather  last  week." 

They  brought  the  wooden  spouse, 
That  now  alone  the  widow's  heart  could  cheer, 

Up  to  the  second  story  of  the  house, 
Where  he  and  she  had  slept  one  blessed  year. 
There  in  her  chamber,  having  turned  the  key, 

She  shut  herself  with  him,  and  sought  relief 

And  comfort  in  the  midst  of  bitter  grief, 
And  held  herself  as  bound,  if  she  would  be 
Forever  worthy  of  his  memory, 
To  weep  away  the  remnant  of  her  life. 
What  more  could  one  desire  of  a  wife  ? 


THE  WIDOW. 


261 


So  sat  Dorinda  many  weeks,  heart-broken, 
And  had  not,  my  informant  said, 

In  all  that  time  to  living  creature  spoken, 
Except  her  house-dog  and  her  serving-maid. 
And  this,  after  so  many  weeks  of  woe,  s 

Was  the  first  day  that  she  had  dared  to  glance 

Out  of  her  window  :  and  to-day,  by  chance, 
Just  as  she  looked,  a  stranger  stood  below. 
Up  in  a  twinkling  came  the  house-maid  running, 
And  said,  with  look  of  sweetest,  half-hid  cunning, 
"  Madam,  a  gentleman  would  speak  with  you, 
A  lovely  gentleman  as  one  would  wish  to  view, 
Almost  as  lovely  as  your  blessed  one ; 
He  has  some  business  with  you  must  be  done  — 
Business,  he  said,  he  could  not  trust  with  me." 
"  Must  just  make  up  some  story,  then,"  said  she; 

"  I  cannot  leave,  one  moment,  my  dear  man; 

In  short,  go  down  and  do  the  best  you  can ; 
Tell  him  I'm  sick  with  sorrow;  for,  ah  me! 
It  were  no  wonder  " 

"  Madam,  'twill  not  do  ; 
He  has  already  had  a  glimpse  of  you, 
Up  at  your  window,  as  he  stood  below ; 

You  must  come  down ;  now  do,  I  pray. 

The  stranger  will  not  thus  be  sent  away. 
He's  something  weighty  to  impart,  I  know. 
I  should  think,  madam,  you  might  go." 
A  moment  the  young  widow  stands  perplexed, 
Fluttering  'twixt  memory  and  hope;  the  next, 
Embracing,  with  a  sudden  glow, 
The  image  that  so  long  had  soothed  her  woe, 
She  lets  the  stranger  in.    Who  can  it  be? 
A  suitor?     Ask  the  maid-  already  she 


262 


GELLERT. 


Is  listening  at  the  key-hole ;  but  her  ear 
Only  Dorinda's  plaintive  tone  can  hear. 
The  afternoon  slips  by.    What  can  it  mean  ? 
The  stranger  goes  not  yet,  has  not  been  seen 
To  leave  the  house.    Perhaps  he  makes  request  — 
Unheard-of  boldness  !  —  to  remain,  a  guest? 
Dorinda  comes  at  length,  and,  sooth  to  say,  alone. — 

Where  is  the  image,  her  dear,  sad  delight?  — 
"  Maid,"  she  begins,  "say,  what  shall  now  be  done? 

The  gentleman  loill  be  my  guest  to-night 
Go,  instantly,  and  boil  the  pot  of  fish." 
"  Yes,  madam,  yes,  with  pleasure  —  as  you  wish." 
Dorinda  goes  back  to  her  room  again. 

The  maid  ransacks  the  house  to  find  a  stick 
Of  wood  to  make  a  fire  beneath  the  pot  —  in  vain. 

She  cannot  find  a  single  one;  then  quick 
She  calls  Dorinda  out  in  agony. 
"  Ah,  madam,  hear  the  solemn  truth,"  says  she. 
"  There's  not  a  stick  of  fish-wood  in  the  house. 

Suppose  I  take  the  image  down  and  split  it  ?  That 

Is  good,  hard  wood,  and  to  our  purpose  pat." 
"  The  image  ?  No,  indeed  !  —  But  —  well  —  yes,  do  ! 
What  need  you  have  been  making  all  this  touse?" 
"  But,  ma'am,  the  image  is  too  much  for  me; 
I  cannot  lift  it  all  alone,  you  see; 
'Twould  go  out  of  the  window  easily." 
"  A  lucky  thought !  and  that  will  split  it  for  you,  too. 

The  gentleman  in  future  lives  with  me ; 

I  may  no  longer  nurse  this  misery." 
Up  went  the  sash,  and  out  the  blessed  Stephen  flew. 


KERNER. 


I 


KERNE  R. 


THE  RICHEST  PRINCE. 

In  a  stately  hall  at  Worms,  one  day, 

Sate  German  princes  four. 
With  many  fair  speeches  counted  they 

Their  lands  and  treasures  o'er. 

And  first  the  prince  of  Saxony 

Extolled  his  rich  domain. 
"  My  mountains  teem  with  silver,"  said  he, 

In  many  a  deep,  dark  vein." 

"  Behold  my  land's  luxuriance !  "  said 

The  elector  of  the  Rhine ; 
"  The  valleys  with  golden  grain  o'erspread, 

On  the  mountains  noble  wine." 

"  Great  cities,  rich  cloisters,  —  all  must  agree," 

Said  Lewis,  Bavaria's  lord, — 
"  Are  prouder  treasures  :  then  to  me 

The  palm  ye  must  accord." 

x 


266 


KERNER. 


Old  Eberhardt,  with  beard  of  snow, 
Loved  lord  of  Würtemberg,  said, 

"  Few  cities  hath  my  land  to  show, 
No  silver  in  mountain-bed. 

"  Yet  one  rare  jewel  it  hides  :  —  I  may, 
Where  woods  are  most  deep  and  drear, 

In  the  lap  of  the  lowliest  subject  lay 
My  head,  and  feel  no  fear." 

Then  out  spake  the  lords  of  Saxony, 

Bavaria,  and  the  Rhine  : 
"  Old  count,  we  yield  the  palm  to  thee , 

Thy  land  bears  jewels  divine  !  " 


emigrant's  song. 


267 


EMIGRANT'S  SONG. 

Once  more  let  it  sparkle  and  gladden  the  heart ! 
Adieu,  loves  and  friendships !  and  now  we  must  part ; 
Farewell,  then,  ye  mountains,  ye  scenes  of  my  home ; 
A  power  resistless  impels  me  to  roam. 

The  sun,  in  the  heavenly  fields,  knows  no  stay ; 
O'er  land  and  o'er  ocean  he  rides  far  away ; 
The  waves  linger  not,  as  they  roll  on  the  sand, 
And  the  storms,  in  their  fury,  sweep  over  the  land. 

The  bird  on  the  light,  fleecy  cloud  sails  along, 
And  sings  in  the  distance  his  dear,  native  song ; 
Through  woodland  and  pasture  the  youth  must  go  forth, 
And  roam  like  his  mother,  the  wandering  earth. 

The  birds  he  once  knew  in  the  fields  of  his  home 
Come  flying  to  greet  him  o'er  ocean's  white  foam ; 
And  the  flowers  of  his  childhood  salute  him  once  more, 
In  the  breezes  that  breathe  from  his  far  native  shore. 

The  songsters  of  home  still  around  him  to  charm, 
The  flowers  Love  planted  still  breathing  their  balm, 
Early  loves  and  old  friendships  still  pressing  his  hand, 
His  home  is  around  him,  though  far  be  the  land. 


268 


KERNER. 


A  POET'S  SOLACE. 

When  I  am  dead,  no  eye  of  love 
May  drop  a  tear  upon  my  grave ; 

Yet  weeping  flowers  shall  bloom  above, 
And  sighing  branches  o'er  me  wave. 

Though  near  the  place  where  I  shall  lie 
The  passing  traveller  linger  not, 

Yet  shall  the  quiet  moon  on  high 
Look  nightly  down  upon  the  spot. 

In  these  green  meadows,  where  I  rove, 
By  man  I  may  forgotten  be  ; 

Yet  the  blue  sky  and  silent  grove 
Forever  shall  remember  me. 


MAHLMAJNN. 


MAHLMANN. 


OLD  FATHER  MARTIN. 
I. 

Full  six-and-eighty  years  had  spea 
O'er  Father  Martin's  honored  head ; 
Bent  o'er  his  staff,  with  feeble  feet, 
He  tottered  down  the  village  street; 
The  heavy  snows  of  age  did  bow 
Nigh  to  the  grave  his  furrowed  brow. 

n. 

Loved  in  the  town  by  great  and  small, 
Old  Martin  was  the  joy  of  all ; 
To  him  the  brightest  wreath  would  come 
At  marriage  dance  or  harvest  home ; 
For  Martin  was  so  mild  and  good, 
And  never  scorned  a  cheerful  mood. 

in. 

Now  husking  came :  in  dance  and  song 

The  night  went  merrily  along ; 

And  there  were  gathered  great  and  small, 

And  sang  and  sprang  by  moonlight  all. 

But  Father  Martin  stole  away 

To  where  his  kinsmen's  tombstones  lay. 


272 


MAIILMANN. 


IV. 

The  night  was  fair —  a  quivering  breeze 
Crept  softly  through  the  churchyard  trees, 
And  murmured  with  a  gentle  breath 
O'er  the  dew-spangled  rose  beneath, 
Which,  planted  by  the  hand  of  love, 
Bloomed  fresh  a  new-made  grave  above. 

v. 

Old  Father  Martin  heaved  a  sigh, 
Looked  upward  to  the  starry  sky, 
Fell  on  the  grave  where  Anna  slept, 
Poured  out  this  fervent  prayer,  and  wept : 
"  Soothe,  gracious  God,  this  broken  heart 
And  let  old  Martin,  too,  depart ! 

VI. 

"  My  friends  and  neighbors  all  are  gone, 

And  I  am  left  to  roam  alone. 

Weary  and  lonesome  here  below  — 

O  God,  that  I  might  also  go ! 

My  day  is  o'er  ;  the  night  is  near ; 

Why,  Father,  should  I  linger  here? 

VII. 

"  Ah,  I  am  very  weak  and  old ; 
My  joys  are  fled,  my  heart  is  cold. 
My  trembling  head  is  silvered  o'er; 
Lord,  can  an  old  man  serve  thee  more  ? 
O,  let  me  now  in  peace  depart ! 
Lay  in  the  earth  this  weary  heart  !  " 


OLD  FATHER  MARTIN. 


273 


VIII. 

And  Martin's  prayer  came  to  the  ears 
Of  the  great  Ruler  of  the  spheres ; 
He  sent  his  good  death-angel  down 
Kindly  the  old  man's  prayer  to  crown, 
To  take  his  pilgrim  staff  away, 
And  in  the  grave  him  softly  lay. 

IX. 

The  angel  whispered  peace  and  cheer 
In  holy  Father  Martin's  ear, 
Near  him  in  robes  of  light  did  stand, 
And  offered  him  his  cold,  cold  hand. 
"  Kiss  me !  "  the  expectant  angel  cried  : 
Old  Martin  gave  the  kiss,  and  — died  ! 


TIECK. 


TIECK. 


SPRING. 

Look  all  around  thee !  How  the  spring  advances ! 

New  life  is  playing  through  the  gay,  green  trees; 
See  how,  in  yonder  bower,  the  light  leaf  dances 

To  the  bird's  tread,  and  to  the  quivering  breeze  ! 
How  every  blossom  in  the  sunlight  glances  ! 

The  winter-frost  to  his  dark  cavern  flees, 
And  earth,  warm-wakened,  feels  through  every  vein 
The  kindling  influence  of  the  vernal  rain. 

Now  silvery  streamlets,  from  the  mountain  stealing, 
Dance  joyously  the  verdant  vales  along ; 

Cold  fear  no  more  the  songster's  tongue  is  sealing ; 
Down  in  the  thick,  dark  grove  is  heard  his  song; 

And,  all  their  bright  and  lovely  hues  revealing, 
A  thousand  plants  the  field  and  forest  throng ; 

Light  comes  upon  the  earth  in  radiant  showers, 

And  mingling  rainbows  play  among  the  flowers. 

Y 


BRUNN. 


I 

CHAMO  UN  Y  AT  SUNRISE,  l 


From  the  deep  shadow  of  the  silent  fir-grove 

I  lift  my  eyes,  and  trembling  look  on  thee, 

Brow  of  eternity,  thou  dazzling  peak, 

From  whose  calm  height  my  dreaming  spirit  mounts 

And  soars  away  into  the  infinite  ! 

Who  sank  the  pillar  in  the  lap  of  earth, 

Down  deep,  the  pillar  of  eternal  rock, 

On  which  thy  mass  stands  firm,  and  firm  hath  stood 

While  centuries  on  centuries  rolled  along? 

Who  reared,  up-towering  through  the  vaulted  blue, 

Mighty  and  bold,  thy  radiant  countenance  ? 

Who  poured  you  from  on  high  with  thunder-sound, 

Down  from  old  winter's  everlasting  realm, 

O  jagged  streams,  o'er  rock  and  through  ravine? 

And  whose  almighty  voice  commanded  loud, 

"  Here  shall  the  stiffening  billows  rest  awhile !  " 


1  See  Note  T. 
Y  2 


282 


BRUNN. 


Whose  finger  points  yon  morning-star  his  course  ? 
Who  fringed  with  blossom-wreaths  the  eternal  frost  1 
Whose  name,  O  wild  Arveiron,  does  thy  din 
Of  waves  sound  out  in  dreadful  harmonies? 

"  Jehovah !  "  crashes  in  the  bursting  ice ; 
Down  through  the  gorge  the  rolling  avalanche 
Carries  the  word  in  thunder  to  the  vales. 
"  Jehovah  ! "  murmurs  in  the  morning  breeze, 
Along  the  trembling  tree-tops  ;  down  below 
It  whispers  in  the  purling,  silvery  brooks. 


MAY  SONG. 


283 


MAY  SONG. 

Bliss  is  floating, 
Smiling  every  where  ; 
Floating  round  the  verdant  mountain, 
Smiling  in  the  glassy  fountain. 
Bliss  is  floating, 
Smiling  every  where ! 

Love  is  reigning, 

Ruling  every  where ; 
Through  the  breezy  thicket  gliding, 
In  the  snowy  blossoms  hiding. 

Love  is  reigning, 

Ruling  every  where ! 

Joy  is  singing, 
Shouting  far  and  near ; 
O'er  the  flowery  meadows  straying, 
Lambs  are  skipping,  children  playing. 
Joy  is  singing, 
Shouting  far  and  near  ! 

Trip  it  gayly 
In  the  dance  of  May ; 
See  the  blossoms  thickly  falling 
On  the  clear  pond ;  spring  is  calling ; 
Haste !  ah,  swiftly 
Spring-time  fades  away ! 


BRUNN. 

Sadness  glimmers 

In  each  flowery  cup  ; 
Pearly  dew-drops  see  it  weeping ! 
Hear  its  sigh  through  alders  creeping 

Sadness  glimmers 

In  each  flowery  cup ! 

Murmur  softly, 
Choir  of  tender  joys ; 

Spirits  whisper  in  the  bowers ; 

Spirits  float  from  scented  flowers. 
Murmur  softly, 
Choir  of  tender  joys ! 

Spring  is  blooming 
Freshly  o'er  the  tomb. 

Life  springs  only  from  death's  prison. 

See  !  the  butterfly  is  risen ! 
Hope  triumphant 
Hovers  o'er  the  tomb  ! 


KOSEGARTEN. 


KOSEGARTEN. 


THE  AMEN  OF  THE  STONES. 

Blind  with  old  age,  the  Venerable  Bede 
Ceased  not,  for  that,  to  preach  and  publish  forth 
The  news  from  heaven  —  the  tidings  of  great  joy. 
From  town  to  town  —  through  all  the  villages  — 
With  trusty  guidance,  roamed  the  aged  saint, 
And  preached  the  word  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

One  day  his  boy  had  led  him  to  a  vale, 
That  lay  all  thickly  sowed  with  mighty  rocks. 
In  mischief  more  than  malice  spake  the  boy : 
"  Most  reverend  father !  there  are  many  men 
Assembled  here,  who  wait  to  hear  thy  voice." 

The  blind  old  man,  so  bowed,  straightway  rose  up, 
Chose  him  his  text,  expounded,  then  applied, 
Exhorted,  warned,  rebuked,  and  comforted, 
So  fervently,  that  soon  the  gushing  tears 
Streamed  thick  and  fast  down  to  his  hoary  beard. 
When,  at  the  close,  as  seemeth  always  meet, 
He  prayed  "  Our  Father,"  and  pronounced  aloud, 
"Thine  is  the  kingdom  and  the  power  —  thine 


288 


KOSEGARTEN. 


The  glory  now  and  through  eternity,"  — 

At  once  there  rang  through  all  that  echoing  vale 

A  sound  of  many  thousand  voices  crying, 

"  Amen  !  most  reverend  sire,  amen !  amen !  " 

Trembling  with  terror  and  remorse,  the  boy 

Knelt  down  before  the  saint,  and  owned  his  sin. 

"  Son,"  said  the  old  man,  "  hast  thou  then  never  read, 

1  When  men  are  dumb,  the  stones  shall  cry  aloud  '  1  — 

Henceforward  mock  not,  son,  the  word  of  God ! 

Living  it  is,  and  mighty,  cutting  sharp, 

Like  a  two-edged  sword.    And  when  the  heart 

Of  flesh  grows  hard  and  stubborn  as  the  stone, 

A  heart  of  flesh  shall  stir  in  stones  themselves ! " 


A  SONG  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


289 


A  SONG  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Sweetly  the  night  is  darkling ! 

How  pure  the  breath  of  night ! 
And  see !  God's  stars  are  sparkling, 

Magnificently  bright ; 
Come  forth !  the  world  is  still,  love, 
And  Jet  us  drink  our  fill,  love, 

From  that  deep  fount  on  high 

Of  light  and  majesty. 

How  fast  fair  Lyra  brightens  ! 

See  how  the  Eagle  gleams ! 
Corona  softly  lightens, 

And  sparkling  Gemma  streams. 
The  Watchmen's  eyes  are  gazing, 
The  golden  Chariots  blazing, 

And  on  that  calm,  blue  sea 

The  Swan  floats  gracefully. 

Ye  stars,  God's  angels,  telling 

The  pathway  of  the  blest, 
'Tis  yours,  each  tumult  quelling, 

To  soothe  the  troubled  breast. 
When,  with  devotion  burning, 
Our  hearts  turn  toward  you,  yearning, 

Bright  omens  cheer  the  eye, 

Of  endless  bliss  on  high, 
z 


290 


KOSEGARTEN. 


My  love,  when  clouds  of  sorrow 
Shall  dim  those  calm,  bright  eyes, 

When  each  returning  morrow 
More  drearily  shall  rise, — 

Then  go,  as  now,  when  nightly 

The  stars  are  twinkling  brightly, 
And  thy  soothed  heart  shall  know 
Rest  from  all  earthly  woe. 

And  if  life's  press  should  ever 
Bear,  love,  our  wandering  feet 

Where  eyes  and  lips  may  never 
Hope  here  on  earth  to  meet, 

O,  then,  go  often,  nightly, 

When  stars  are  beaming  brightly, 
And  think,  —  On  that  blest  shore 
We  meet  to  part  no  more  ! 


A 


VIA  CRUCIS  VIA  LUC1S. 


291 


VIA  CRUCIS  VIA  LUCIS. 

Through  night  to  light!  — And  though  to  mortal  eyes 

Creation's  face  a  pall  of  horror  wear, 
Good  cheer !  good  cheer  !  The  gloom  of  midnight  flies ; 

Then  shall  a  sunrise  follow,  mild  and  fair. 

Through  storm  to  calm!  —  And  though  his  thunder-car 
The  rumbling  tempest  drive  through  earth  and  sky, 

Good  cheer !  good  cheer  !  The  elemental  war 
Tells  that  a  blessed,  healing  hour  is  nigh. 

Through  frost  to  spring!  —  And  though  the  biting  blast 

Of  Eurus  stiffen  nature's  juicy  veins, 
Good  cheer  !  good  cheer !  When  winter's  wrath  is  past, 

Soft-murmuring   spring  breathes   sweetly  o'er  the 
plains. 

Through  strife  to  peace!  —  And  though,  with  bristling 
front, 

A  thousand  frightful  deaths  encompass  thee, 
Good  cheer  !  good  cheer  !  Brave  thou  the  battle's  brunt 
For  the  peace-march  and  song  of  victory. 

Through  sweat  to  sleep  !  —  And  though  the  sultry  noon, 
With  heavy,  drooping  wing,  oppress  thee  now, 

Good  cheer  !  good  cheer !  The  cool  of  evening  soon 
Shall  lull  to  sweet  repose  thy  weary  brow. 


292 


KOSE GARTEN. 


Through  cross  to  crown !  —  And  though  thy  spirit's  life 

Trials  untold  assail  with  giant  strength, 
Good  cheer !  good  cheer !  Soon  ends  the  bitter  strife, 

And  thou  shalt  reign  in  peace  with  Christ  at  length. 

Through  woe  to  joy  !  —  And  though  at  morn  thou  weep, 
And  though  the  midnight  find  thee  weeping  still, 

Good  cheer  !  good  cheer !  The  Shepherd  loves  his  sheep  ; 
Resign  thee  to  the  watchful  Father's  will. 

Through  death  to  life !  —  And  through  this  vale  of  tears, 
And  through  this  thistle-field  of  life,  ascend 

To  the  great  supper  in  that  world  whose  years 
Of  bliss  unfading,  cloudless,  know  no  end. 


KR  UMMACHER. 


KRUMMACHER 


MOUNTAIN  AND  VALLEY. 

On  Alpine  heights  the  love  of  God  is  shed ; 

He  paints  the  morning  red, 

The  flowerets  white  and  blue, 

And  feeds  them  with  his  dew. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

On  Alpine  heights,  o'er  many  a  fragrant  heath, 
The  loveliest  breezes  breathe ; 
So  free  and  pure  the  air, 
His  breath  seems  floating  there. 

On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

On  Alpine  heights,  beneath  his  mild  blue  eye, 

Still  vales  and  meadows  lie ; 

The  soaring  glacier's  ice 

Gleams  like  a  Paradise. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

Down  Alpine  heights  the  silvery  streamlets  flow ; 

There  the  bold  chamois  go ; 

On  giddy  crags  they  stand, 

And  drink  from  his  own  hand. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 


296 


KRUMMACHER 


On  Alpine  heights,  in  troops  all  white  as  snow, 

The  sheep  and  wild  goats  go ; 

There,  in  the  solitude, 

He  fills  their  hearts  with  food. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

On  Alpine  heights  the  herdsman  tends  his  herd  ; 

His  Shepherd  is  the  Lord ; 

For  he  who  feeds  the  sheep 

Will  sure  his  offspring  keep. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 


THE  SETTING  SUN. 


297 


THE  SETTING  SUN. 

The  sun  is  setting  brightly ; 
How  clear  he  looks,  and  sprightly  ! 
How  like  a  friend  he  seems  to  gaze, 
While  slowly  sinks  his  golden  blaze ! 

This  is  the  way  he  preaches, 
And  this  the  truth  he  teaches  :  — 
Whoe'er  in  goodness  spends  the  day, 
When  evening  comes,  is  always  gay. 

He  walks  from  morn  to  even 
His  destined  path  through  heaven, 
And  from  his  heavenly  tent  pours  forth 
Brightness  and  warmth  o'er  all  the  earth. 

Then,  when  the  day  is  ending, 

He,  to  his  rest  descending, 

Yet  stays  his  downward  course  a  while 

To  greet  us  with  a  farewell  smile. 

And  now  he  is  reposing; 
Night's  shades  are  o'er  him  closing ; 
But  with  new  splendor  soon  he'll  rise, 
And  flame  on  high  in  eastern  skies. 


298 


KRUMMAC  HER. 


So  tread  the  path  before  thee, 

Of  virtue,  bliss,  and  glory, 

That,  when  the  day  of  life  is  o'er, 

Thy  sun  may  rise  in  heaven  to  set  no  more. 


NOVALIS. 


NOVALIS. 


SONG  OF  ZULIMA,  THE  ARABIAN  CAPTIVE 

Still  must  childhood's  happy  dream 
Haunt  me  'neath  these  hostile  skies  1 

Ever  shall  hope's  fitful  gleam 
Wave  before  my  weary  eyes  ? 

Ever  shall  they  rove  in  vain 

O'er  the  wide  and  restless  main  ? 

Couldst  thou  see  the  myrtle  bowers, 

See  the  cedar's  dusky  hair, 
Where  my  sisters,  crowned  with  flowers, 

Lingered  in  the  dewy  air! 
Couldst  thou  see  them  lead  the  dance 
;Neath  the  pale  moon's  silver  glance ! 

Youthful  lovers  bowed  the  knee, 

Noble  warriors  from  afar; 
Tender  songs  arose  to  me 

Ever  with  the  evening-star. 
For  love  and  honor  death  to  dare 
Was  the  manly  watchword  there,  — 


302 


NOVALIS. 


There,  where  smiling  heavens  lend 

To  the  seas  a  golden  glow, 
Where  the  warm,  balsamic  waves 

Round  the  shelving  woodlands  flow  ; 
Where  'mid  thousand  fruits  and  flowers 
Wild  birds  haunt  the  leafy  bowers. 

Fades  the  dream  of  youth  and  love  ; 

Far  away  my  native  halls ; 
Lowly  lies  the  myrtle  grove ; 

Mouldering  stand  the  castle  walls. 
Sudden  as  the  lightning's  brand, 
Pirates  scathed  the  smiling  land. 

Lurid  flames  flashed  wild  and  high; 

Clashing  sabres,  stamping  steeds, 
Mingle  with  the  midnight  cry  : 

None  the  suppliant  victim  heeds. 
Father,  brothers,  could  not  save; 
Pirates  bore  us  o'er  the  wave. 

Still  my  heart  is  fondly  yearning, 
As  I  pace  the  barren  strand  ; 

Still  mine  eyes  through  tears  are  turning 
To  that  far-off*  mother-land, 

Ever  wandering  in  vain 

O'er  the  wide  and  restless  main. 


S.  H.  W. 


UNION. 


UNION. 


Give  me  thy  hand,  in  faithful  token 

That  thou  my  friend  wilt  always  be; 
Now  never  may  the  chain  be  broken, 

Which  links  my  heart  this  day  to  thee ; 
One  place  of  prayer,  our  passions  stilling  — 

One  home,  where  pleasant  hours  shall  flee  — 
One  joy,  our  bosoms  gently  thrilling  — 

One  heaven,  at  last,  for  thee  and  me. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


AA2 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LIFE 

O,  the  garden  of  life  is  lovely  and  fair! 
How  lovely,  when  spring  in  its  freshness  is  there ! 
The  sun-gilded,  blossom-crowned  hill-tops,  how  gay! 
The  light,  roaming  zephyrs,  how  sweetly  they  play! 

How  sweetly  they  play  on  the  waves  of  the  grass  ! 
O,  see  how  the  flowers  dance  round  as  they  pass ! 
Each  twig-top  is  nodding,  each  flower-cup  so  blue ; 
And  from  twig-top  and  flower-cup  fall  pearl-drops  of  dew. 

And  fountains  of  pleasure,  so  lovely  and  bright, 
Purl  round  through  the  garden,  and  leap  to  the  light. 
Through  flowery  meads  they  go  dancing  away ; 
They  dance  and  they  murmur,  and  hail  the  young  May. 

But,  ah!  'tis  soon  over;  sweet  spring,  too,  speeds  on, 
And  the  flowers,  ere  we  dream,  are  all  faded  and  gone ; 
The  sweet-scented  violet  has  lost  its  perfume ; 
It  withers,  and  leaves  my  lone  bosom  to  gloom.  — 

The  garden  yet  blossoms ;  still  murmurs  the  breeze, 
So  cool  and  so  soft,  through  the  garlanded  trees; 
And  the  May-flowers  still  smile,  and  breathe  round  their 
perfume : 

O,  life's  lovely  garden  is  still,  still  in  bloom! 


310 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


We  roam  through  the  garden,  o'er  valley  and  hill, 
And  the  stream  that  purled  yesterday  purls  by  us  still: 
Then  away  with  all  weeds,  away  sadness  and  gloom, 
While  the  flowers  of  spring-time  are  still  in  their  bloom. 

'Neath  the  scythe  of  old  Time  they  must  fall,  it  is  true, 
The  sweet-scented  flowers ;  but  we  shall  fall,  too ; 
And  Earth,  that  once  nursed  the  May-flowers  on  her 
breast, 

Shall  open  her  cool  lap,  and  lull  us  to  rest. 


ROSEMANN. 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


MY  HEART. 

O  my  heart,  my  heart !  in  thee 
Dwells  a  fount  of  joy  for  me ; 
And,  when  thou  true  peace  hast  found, 
Peace  and  beauty  reign  around. 

Thee,  my  inner  temple,  thee 
To  adorn,  my  glory  be ; 
Thee,  my  treasure,  fortune,  fame, 
To  increase  be  still  my  aim. 

Love  thy  Maker ;  let  it  be 

Duty  and  delight  to  thee : 

When  the  day  breaks  o'er  the  hill  — 

At  the  sunset-hour  so  still. 

Let  each  living  creature  share 
Thy  warm  love,  and  be  it  thy  care, 
That  whate'er  thine  eyes  may  see 
Form  a  link  'twixt  Heaven  and  thee. 

Find  thy  home  in  every  land ; 
Give  each  man  a  brother's  hand ; 
And  let  each,  whoe'er  he  be, 
Hold  a  lasting  claim  to  thee. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Help,  —  where'er  it  may  avail, — 
Sympathy,  —  if  help  should  fail, — 
Solace  to  each  pining  heart, 
To  the  wavering,  strength,  impart. 

Then,  my  heart,  thy  bliss  shall  be 
Like  a  stream,  that,  full  and  free, 
Ere  its  ocean-home  appears, 
Many  a  way-worn  wanderer  cheers. 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


313 


GERMAN  NURSERY  SONG. 


O  Strasburg,  O  Strasburg !  thou  city  wondrous  fair ! 
How  many  a  buried  soldier  is  lying  'neath  thee  there ! 
How  many  a  fair  and  gallant  one  is  now  lying  low, 
Who  left  his  father  and  mother  so  long,  long  ago! 
He  left  them,  he  left  them,  but  help  it  how  could  he? 
In  Strasburg  in  Strasburg  soldiers  there  must  be. 
The  mother  and  the  sister  they  sought  the  captain's 
door : — 

"  Ah,  captain,  dearest  captain,  let  me  see  my  son  once 
more." 

"  For  gold  on  gold  I  cannot  give  your  son  to  you 
again,  — 

Your  son,  —  and  he  must  perish  on  the  broad  and  distant 
plain ; 

On   the  broad  and  the  distant,  the  distant  field  must 
die, 

Where  o'er  him  many  a  dark-brown  maid  so  mournfully 
shall  sigh." 


B  B 


314 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


NURSE'S  WATCH. 
FROM  THE  "BOY'S  HORN  OF  WONDERS. 

The  moon  it  shines, 

My  darling  whines; 
The  clock  strikes  twelve  :  —  God  cheer 
The  sick,  both  far  and  near. 

God  knoweth  all ; 

Mousy  nibbles  in  the  wall ; 
The  clock  strikes  one  :  —  like  day, 
Dreams  o'er  thy  pillow  play. 

The  matin-bell 

Wakes  the  nun  in  convent  cell ; 
The  clock  strikes  two ;  —  they  go 
To  choir  in  a  row. 

The  wind  it  blows, 

The  cock  he  crows ; 
The  clock  strikes  three :  —  the  wagoner 
In  his  straw  bed  begins  to  stir. 

The  steed  he  paws  the  floor, 

Creaks  the  stable-door; 
The  clock  strikes  four  ;  —  'tis  plain, 
The  coachman  sifts  his  grain. 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


The  swallow's  laugh  the  still  air  shakes, 

The  sun  awakes ; 
The  clock  strikes  five  :  — the  traveller  must 

be  gone, 
He  puts  his  stockings  on. 

The  hen  is  clacking, 

The  ducks  are  quacking; 
The  clock  strikes  six  :  —  awake,  arise, 
Thou  lazy  hag ;  come,  ope  thy  eyes. 

Quick  to  the  baker's  run ; 

The  rolls  are  done  ; 
The  clock  strikes  seven ;  — 
'Tis  time  the  milk  were  in  the  oven. 

Put  in  some  butter,  do, 

And  some  fine  sugar,  too ; 
The  clock  strikes  eight;  — 
Now  bring  my  baby's  porridge  straight. 


316 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


CHIMNEY-SWEEPER'S  SONG. 


'Tis  true,  I'm  as  black  as  the  pitch-black  coal, 
But  I  might  be  white,  if  I  chose  to  be  so; 

And  I'm  sure  there's  no  malice  so  black  in  my  soul, 
To  make  the  children  all  run  from  me  so. 

My  face  may  show  the  Evil  One, 

But  my  heart  is  as  fair  as  the  noonday  sun. 

Why,  the  maiden  I  love  has  more  money,  I  know, 
Than  I  in  my  lifetime  can  scrape  together ; 

Her  cheeks  are  like  roses,  her  brow  is  like  snow, 
And  I  am  as  black  as  a  raven's  feather ; 

And  yet,  for  all  that,  she  confesses  to  me, 

"  I  love  thee  —  I  love  none  else  but  thee." 


So  now,  then,  good  people,  don't  look  so  shy, 
As  if  I  were  coming  expressly  to  scalp  you ! 

I'll  tell  you,  in  brief,  how  important  am  I :  — 

If  it  were  not  for  us,  chimney-sweepers,  to  help  you, 

The  danger  of  fire  would  give  you  such  dread, 

You  could  not  sleep  a  wink  in  your  bed. 

You've  blacksmiths  and  whitesmiths,  both  plenty  and 
good, 

'Gainst  midnight  assassins  and  thieves  to  secure  you  ; 
And  that  never  a  rain-drop  shall  dare  to  intrude, 
The  slater  and  carpenter  come  to  insure  you  : 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


317 


You've  a  priest,  when  you  want  one,  to  save  you  from 
sin, 

And,  when  you  are  ailing,  the  doctor  comes  in. 

'Gainst  the  pestilent  rats  and  mice  you  hire 
A  faithful  and  Argus-eyed  chamber-keeper ; 

But  to  guard  you  from  brands  and  midnight  fire, 
You  must  trust  to  the  ill-looking  chimney-sweeper; 

And  so,  with  your  leave,  I  venture  to  call 

My  humble  office  the  first  of  all. 

Good  citizens  all,  if  you  would  feel 

That  your  city  is  safe  while  you  are  sleeping, 

Just  call  on  the  man  with  the  three-cornered  steel 
To  come  and  give  your  chimneys  a  sweeping ; 

For,  O,  how  many,  from  want  of  thought, 

In  the  wink  of  an  eyelid  to  ruin  are  brought! 

Where  I  am  too  heavy  and  thick  to  squeeze, 

And  bring  down  the  soot  with  my  ringing  scraper, 

My  urchin  here  can  clamber  with  ease ; 

He'll  slip  through  the  crannies  as  neat  as  a  taper ; 

And,  though  his  presence  is  somewhat  mean, 

'Pon  honor,  he'll  sweep  your  chimneys  clean. 

Up,  briskly,  youngster;  scrape  away; 

And,  when  you  once  have  fairly  ascended, 
Then  drink  the  fresh  air  and  the  light  of  day, 

And  sing  for  joy  that  your  work  is  ended ; 
And  swing  your  brush,  and  cry,  "  Sweep,  ho !  " 
Till  every  body  looks  up  from  below. 

B  B  2 


318 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Then  all  ye  good  people  who  love  your  race, 
And  heartily  wish  for  your  country's  salvation, 

Just  look  in  the  chimney-sweeper's  face, 
And  drink  success  to  his  vocation 

In  a  brimming  glass  of  that  generous  wine 

Whose  gladness  maketh  the  face  to  shine. 


Eichholz. 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


319 


THE  POSTILION. 

When  the  dawn  is  faintly  breaking, 
From  his  slumbers  lightly  waking, 
While  the  world  is  still  in  deep  repose, 
Forth  the  gay  postilion  goes ; 
To  the  stall  with  speed  he  bounds  ; 
There  his  startling  lash  he  sounds  — 
Click,  clack. 

See  his  steeds  now  proudly  prancing, 
Through  the  city  gates  advancing, 
While  the  rising  sun's  all-gilding  rays 
Over  mount  and  valley  blaze. 
Up  and  down  the  hills  they  fly ; 
Now  the  plains  before  them  lie  — 
Click,  clack. 

Then,  when  night  comes,  faintly  darkling, 
And  the  peaceful  stars  are  sparkling, 
Lo !  the  goal  is  near  :  the  glad  steeds  bound  ; 
Soon  the  rattling  streets  resound  ; 
Now  the  post-horn  pours  its  blast, 
While  the  sounding  lash  falls  fast  — 
Click,  clack. 


320 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MILLER'S  SONG. 

A  miller  am  I ;  and  my  face,  I  know, 
Is  dusty-white,  and  it  must  be  so; 

Only  give  me  good  wind,  and  I  care  not. 
A  host  of  gentles,  so  neat  and  clean, 
Creeping  pale  through  the  streets  of  the  city  are  seen, 

And  millers,  I  trow,  they  are  not. 

The  dust  has  quite  covered  my  auburn  hair, 
And  lip,  and  cheek,  and  forehead  fair ; 

In  the  nature  of  things  it  must  be  so. 
The  dames  of  the  city  grow  dusty  for  nought ; 
To  paint  their  pale  cheeks  all  red  they  are  taught; 

Then  why  should  they  stare  at  me  so  1 

Then  there  are  my  hands;  —  you'll  say,  they  too 
Are  not  more  clean  than  my  face ;  —  'tis  true ; 

And  can  it  be  otherwise,  think  ye? 
These  hands  for  wife  and  child  provide, 
And  many  a  great  one's  hands,  beside, 

Are  not  too  clean,  let  me  hint  t'  ye' 

There's  a  plenty  of  noise  and  high  wind  here ; 
But  Slumber,  the  friend  of  Toil,  is  near, 

And  shakes  his  sweet  blossoms  around  me. 
In  the  city  there's  nothing  but  racket  all  night, 
And  a  constant  gale  till  morning  light, 

I'm  sure,  it  would  quite  confound  me. 

Fr.  Poeschmann. 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


ADVERTISEMENT  OF  A  MENAGERIE. 

Wondrous  beasts  are  here  for  show, 

Full  of  life  and  motion  ; 
Up  and  down  their  dens  they  go, 

Like  the  restless  ocean ;  — 
Lions,  tigers,  leopards,  apes, 
Monkeys,  too,  of  several  shapes, 

Birds  of  rarest  beauty. 

How  they  stamp,  and  tear  the  ground, 
Flap,  and  snort,  and  chatter  ! 

Men  and  boys  come  crowding  round, 
Wondering  what's  the  matter. 

When  they  spy  the  meat,  they  rage ; 

How  the  lion  tears  his  cage 
Like  a  crazy  creature ! 

Watch  them  closely,  mark  them  well, 

Every  form  and  feature ; 
When  the  man  their  names  shall  tell, 

Don't  forget  the  creature, 
Lest  you  should  a  blunder  make, 
And  the  pretty  goldfinch  take 

For  a  mousing  sparrow.  / 

Apes  and  asses  formerly 
Foreign  vessels  brought  us ; 


322  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Of  the  great  rhinoceros 

Poetry  had  taught  us. 
Thanks  to  these  enlightened  times, 
Strangest  beasts  from  farthest  climes 

Our  own  eyes  now  show  us. 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


323 


FISHER'S  SONG. 

Up  and  down,  all  day  long, 
Life  glides  by  us,  like  our  so'^y. 
In  our  little  fisher-boat, 
On  the  restless  sea  we  float. 
Up  and  down,  all  day  long, 
Life  glides  by  us,  like  our  song. 

Far  from  care,  far  from  pain, 
Far  from  thoughts  of  greedy  gain, 
Calmly,  cheerfully,  we  ride 
Over  life's  tempestuous  tide, — 
Far  from  care,  far  from  pain, 
Far  from  thoughts  of  greedy  gain. 


324 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


HUNTING  SONG 

O'er  the  hill  and  through  the  hollow 
All  day  the  chase  I  follow, 

A  merry  hunting  boy. 
Each  morn  my  toil  renewing, 
Every  forest  path  pursuing ; 

In  that  is  all  my  joy. 

With  water  from  the  fountain, 

Or  with  wild  fruits  from  the  mountain, 

I  eat  my  coarse  brown  bread,  — 
My  mossy  table  spreading 
Where  the  beechen  boughs  are  shedding 

Their  shadow  o'er  my  head,  — 

The  stag  and  wild  boar  chasing, 
The  wily  Renard  tracing 

His  furry  coat  to  claim ; 
And  oft  at  distance  spying 
The  rapid  woodcock  flying, 

I  take  my  certain  aim. 

When,  wearied,  home  returning, 
My  pipe  is  brightly  burning 

In  the  keen  and  frosty  air : 
Through  the  lonely  forest  riding, 
In  my  faithful  dog  confiding, 

What  know  I  then  of  care? 


SONGS   OF  LIFE. 


325 


When  the  light  of  day  is  sinking, 
When  the  dewy  stars  are  blinking, 

I  hail  with  eager  joy 
The  hearth-light  brightly  beaming, 
From  my  cottage  window  streaming,  — 

A  happy  hunting  boy. 

S.  H.  W. 


cc 


326 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  FLAX-SPLNNER'S  SONG, 
SUNG  AMONG  THE  PEASANTS  OF  WESTPHALIA. 

Now  is  the  flax  so  fair  and  long ; 

Ho!  ho!  ho! 
And  now  the  poor  man's  heart  is  strong, 
And  now  ascends  his  swelling  Song, 

The  grateful  heart's  o'erflow. 

What  torments  must  the  flax  endure  ! 

Ho!  ho!  ho! 
They'll  dig  a  pond,  and  heave  it  in, 
Then  beat  and  bruise  it  short  and  thin ; 

Hallo!  hallo!  hallo! 

The  flayer,  he  will  break  the  straw, 

Rack  !  rack !  rack  ! 
The  gleaner,  he  will  scrape  and  glean, 
Till  not  a  single  sheaf  is  seen, 

Then  throw  it  on  the  pack. 

The  hatcheler  then  must  make  it  tine, 

Hash !  hash  !  hash ! 
He  draws  it  out  so  fine  and  fair  — 
He  forms  the  woof  with  speed  and  care, 

And  lays  it  on  the  rash. 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


327 


And  then,  when  winter  comes  along, 

Groll!  groll!  groll! 
The  woofs  are  set,  and  man  and  wife, 
They  spin,  as  if  they  spun  for  life, 

They  spin  full  many  a  roll. 

And  now  the  bride  will  be  so  gay, 

Ho!  ho!  ho! 
She'll  spin  by  night,  she'll  spin  by  day; 
Her  bridal  dress  she'll  spin  away, 

Fine  as  her  hair,  I  know. 

Hurrah !  hurrah  !  the  flax  is  good ! 

Ho!  ho!  ho! 
Who  does  his  duty  daily,  he 
Must  always  bright  and  happy  be, 

Whether  in  weal  or  woe. 

The  flax  rewards  our  cheerful  toil ; 

Ho!  ho!  ho! 
And  many  a  mighty  prince's  son 
Who  wears  the  linen  we  have  spun, 

Our  joy  may  never  Know 


328 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


LOVE  SONG  OF  A  LAPLANDER. 

Come,  Zama,  come,  nor  longer  scorn  thy  lover, 

Queen  of  the  fair ; 
O  come,  or  soon  the  snows  of  age  shall  cover 

My  wasting  hair. 

Vain  is  thy  flight,  for  Love  hath  wings  more  fleeting 

Than  fleetest  steed ; 
Nor  driving  snow  nor  hail-storm,  fiercely  beating, 

Shall  stay  my  speed. 

I'll  stem  the  stream  where  wintry  waves  roll  deepest, 

To  come  to  thee  ; 
I'll  climb  the  crag  where  mountain  walls  rise  steepest, 

Thy  form  to  see. 

No  gloomy  glen  within  its  depths  shall  hide  thee, 

Nor  tangled  shade ; 
Through  brier  and  bog  I'll  follow  close  beside  thee, 

Coy  Lapland  maid. 

And  shouldst  thou  still,  shy  maiden,  fly  before  me 

Far  o'er  the  sea, 
I'll  stand  by  Greenland's  breakers,  hoarse  and  hoary, 

And  cry  to  thee. 


SONGS   OF  LIFE. 


The  long,  long  night  is  near;  my  heart  is  yearning 

Sweet  love,  for  thine. 
My  light,  I  see  thee  even  now  returning :  — 

What  joy  is  mine ! 

Kleist. 


330 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


DAINTY  DOLLY. 

Blond  of  hair  and  blue  of  eye, 
Philip  sat,  and  thus  did  sigh. — 
"Dorothy,  wert  thou  my  wife, 
I  would  love  thee  all  my  life ! " 
But  the  dainty  Dolly  cried, 
"  Yellow  heads  I  can't  abide !  " 

William,  brown  of  eye  and  hair, 
Next  beset  the  freakish  fair; 
William  was  not  great  of  limb, 
Yet  there  was  a  soul  in  him. 
Still  the  dainty  Dolly  cried, 
"  Little  men  I  can't  abide." 

Six  years  passed  :  another  cried, 
"  Dorothy,  be  thou  my  bride; 
Hand  and  heart  I  offer  thee, 
And  a  pretty  property." 
Still  the  dainty  Dolly  cried, 
"  Widowers  I  can't  abide." 

Ten  years  fled  :  a  miser  came, 
Hollow-eyed,  and  owned  his  flame ; 
Toothless,  tottering,  scarce  could  stand, 
Offered  her  his  bony  hand, 


SONGS   OF  LIFE. 


Long  and  stiff  as  any  crutch : 
Dolly  shrank  back  from  the  touch. 
But  the  generous  mother  cried, 
"  Wilt  not  be  the  rich  man's  bride?  " 

Dolly  sees,  meanwhile,  each  day, 
Here  and  there  a  hair  grow  gray  ; 
Takes,  at  length,  the  old  skinny  purse 
Takes  "  for  better  or  for  worse." 
Now  this  jewel  of  a  wife 
He  has,  well  locked  up,  for  life.  — 
Hear  what  Dolly  now  doth  sing  — 
"  Gentle  maidens,  sow  in  spring !  " 


332 


xMISCELLANEOUS. 


PRAISE  OF  SINGING. 

Were  it  not  for  sound  and  song, 

Life  would  lose  its  pleasure; 
We  could  not  endure  it  long, — 

Such  a  load  of  treasure. 
Say,  what  is  it  soothes  the  soul, 

And  the  heart  rejoices? 
'Tis  the  burst  of  joyous  song, 

Blending  happy  voices. 

When  the  heavy  hours  drag, 

Heavier  hours  bringing, 
When  our  spirits  faint  and  flag, 

Then  we  take  to  singing. 
Cheerily,  the  while  we  sing, 

Flies  the  lightened  hour  ; 
Dulness  lifts  his  drooping  wing, 

Roused  by  Music's  power. 

Larks  that  soar  in  upper  air, 

Nightingales  in  bowers, 
duails  that  sing  in  meadows  fair, 

Flying  through  the  flowers,  — 
How  they  warble  !    Sky  and  grove 

With  their  songs  are  ringing  ■ 
We,  like  them,  will  evermore 

Cheer  the  hours  with  singing. 


SONGS   OF  LIFE. 


HUNTERS'  CHORUS. 
FROM  u  DER  FREISCHÜTZ." 


What  joy  in  the  wide  world  with  huntsmen's  is  vying? 

For  whom  does  life's  beaker  so  richly  o'erflow  ? 
'Mid  clanging  of  horns  in  the  green-wood  a-lying, 

Through  pond  and  through  thicket  a-chasing  the  roe 

or  o  Of 

Is  princely  enjoyment, —  is  manly  employment  ;  — 
It  braces  the  limbs  and  it  spices  the  meal : 

When  rocks  hanging  o'er  us  reecho  our  chorus, 

How  rings  through  the  forest  the  deep,  merry  peal !  — 
Yo  ho  ho  !  trallara ! 

O,  well  knows  Diana  our  pathway  to  lighten, 

When  night's  cooling  shadows  fall  dark  in  the  wood. 
The  grim,  bloody  wolf,  and  the  wild  boar  to  frighten. 

As  through  the  green  cornfields  he  prowls  for  his  food, 
Is  princely  enjoyment,  —  is  manly  employment;  — 

It  braces  the  limbs  and  it  spices  the  meal: 
When  rocks  hanging  o'er  us  reecho  our  chorus, 

How  rings  through  the  forest  the  deep,  merry  peal !  — 
Yo  ho  ho  !  trallara  ! 


#34  MISCELLANEOUS. 


HUNTSMAN'S  SONG. 

The  vales  are  smoking ;  the  hill-tops  blaze  ; 
Away,  away  to  the  sounding  chase ! 
Glad  morning  wakes  to  fresh  delight; 
High  swells  the  breast  for  deeds  of  might. 
Sound  loud  the  shrill  bugle ;  and  then 
On,  monarchs  of  woodland  and  glen  ! 

Now  breaks  in  triumph  the  golden  day  ! 
Swift  speeds  the  wing'd  shaft  on  its  deadly  way ; 
The  eagle  drops  from  his  towering  skies ; 
Far  down  the  dark  glen  the  serpent  dies. 
Once  more  sound  the  bugle ;  and  then 
On,  monarchs  of  woodland  and  glen! 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


335 


SKATER'S  SONG. 

Away  and  away  o'er  the  deep-sounding  tide 
On  crystals  of  silver  we  sweep  and  we  glide : 
The  steel  is  our  pinion,  our  roof  the  broad  blue, 
And  heaven's  pure  breezes  our  pathway  pursue. 
So,  joyfully,  brothers,  we  glide  and  we  sweep 
Away  and  away  over  life's  brazen  deep. 

Thou  golden-bright  palace,  whose  hand  arched  thee 
o'er, 

And  spread  out  beneath  us  the  diamond-paved  floor, 
And  gave  us  the  steel  with  its  lightning-like  glance, 
Through  heavenly  chambers  to  float  and  to  dance? 
So,  joyfully,  brothers,  we  float  and  we  glide 
Through  the  heavenly  chambers  of  life  far  and  wide. 

Through  the  pale  mists  of  evening  the  sun  glimmers  still, 

And  lingers  awhile  on  the  brow  of  the  hill ; 

But  now  he's  gone  down,  and,  with  tranquil,  soft  glow, 

The  moon  shines  like  silver  above  and  below. 

So,  joyfully,  brothers,  we  float  and  we  glide, 

In  sunshine  and  moonlight,  o'er  life's  silver  tide. 

Look  up,  now !  how  sparkles  that  blue  sea  on  high  ! 
And  below  us,  in  frost,  gleams  a  star-lighted  sky. 
For  He  who  with  suns  studded  heaven  o'erhead, 
Beneath  us  a  frost-flowered  meadow  hath  spread. 


336 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


So,  joyfully,  brothers,  we  float  and  we  glide 
Through  life's  starry  meadows  away  far  and  wide. 

He  made  us  this  palace  so  airy  and  wide, 
And  gave  us  steel  feet  amid  dangers  to  glide ; 
In  the  frosts  of  mid-winter  he  kindles  our  blood ; 
We  hover,  we  sweep,  o'er  the  treacherous  flood. 
So,  fearlessly,  brothers,  steel-hearted,  we  sweep 
O'er  the  sounding  abysses  of  life's  stormy  deep. 


Herder. 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


337 


THE  SOAP-BUBBLE. 

See  our  airy  bubble,  lightly  dancing, 

Far  away  on  buoyant  breezes  rise ! 
Imaged  there,  a  mimic  world  is  glancing : 

See  it  sail  along  the  smiling  skies  ! 

Youthful  spirits,  now  so  brightly  glowing, 
Borne  away  by  airy  hopes  on  high, 

May  no  chilling  breeze,  more  harshly  blowing, 
Bid  your  lovely,  golden  visions  fly  ! 

Thoughtless  man,  gay  dreams  around  thee  hover ; 

Pomp  and  pride  their  richest  charms  display  ; 
But  how  soon  their  empty  reign  is  over  ! 

Like  yon  globe  they  quickly  pass  away. 


D  D 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THIS  WORLD  IS  ALL  A  MIGHTY  CHOIR. 

This  world  is  all  one  mighty  choir, 

And  we  the  instruments  therein ; 
The  voice  of  Music  doth  inspire, 

And  at  her  signal  we  begin. 
The  lords  and  great  ones  lead  the  choir ; 

Both  tune  and  time  themselves  select ; 
And  at  their  nod  we  strike  the  wire, 

And  play,  now  more,  now  less  correct 

Andante  is  the  poor  man's  Tempo; 

The  rich  in  Allegro  you'll  find; 
With  them  it's  Forte,  Maestoso ; 

We,  all  unheard,  pipe  in  behind  ; 
And  many  a  man  plays  very  vainly, 

Because  his  strings  are  somehow  wrong ; 
And  crowds  you'll  find  expected  only 

To  blow  the  bellows  all  life  long. 

KOTZEBUE. 


SONGS  OF  LIFE. 


339 


GRAVE-DIGGER'S  SONG. 

Approach  and  see  !  there  stands  the  bier ; 

Within,  the  pale,  cold  clay. 
There  is  the  tomb,  where,  veiled  in  gloom, 

Corruption  waits  his  prey. 

Come  hither,  all,  and  trembling  see 
Your  own  approaching  doom  ; 

Time  hurries  by  :  you,  too,  must  lie 
Forgotten  in  the  tomb. 

Full  many  a  one  at  morn  I've  seen 

Bloom  freshly  like  the  rose; 
When  day  was  done,  the  sinking  sun 

His  grave  beheld  me  close. 

I'm  but  a  poor  man ;  yet  the  world 

Before  my  sceptre  bend : 
The  wicked  see  a  foe  in  me, 

The  good  alone  a  friend. 

Thou  gold-clad  tyrant,  wherefore  thus 

Display  each  stolen  plume  1 
Look  hither !  see,  I  wait  for  thee ! 

Fear'st  not  to  approach  the  tomb? 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

And,  hero,  —  thou  whose  glittering  arms 
God's  world  a  waste  have  made,  — 

Say,  canst  thou  fly  ?  or  wilt  defy 
My  stern,  avenging  spade  ? 

But  thou,  whom  virtue  calls  to  mourn, 

By  the  cold  world  oppressed, 
Bear  well  thy  load  —  tread  duty's  road  — 

Soon,  soon  I'll  give  thee  rest. 

My  field  is  small  —  he  needs  not  much, 

Who  seeks  a  place  of  rest. 
Here  sounds  no  groan ;  no  woe  is  known 

Nor  care  nor  fear  molest. 

My  field  is  small  —  but  great  shall  be 

The  harvest  of  my  God, 
When  bursts,  at  last,  each  seed  I've  cast 

Beneath  the  silent  sod. 

Come,  then,  and  see !  there  stands  the  bier 

The  harvest  swells  below : 
The  Judge  on  high,  throned  in  the  sky, 

Shall  recompense  bestow. 

My  spade  scarce  gains  my  daily  bread; 

Yet  whoso  fearlessly 
Can  stand  and  gaze  upon  my  face, 

An  upright  man  must  be. 

Graf  von  Mellin 


SONGS  OF  NATURE 


DD  2 


SONGS  OF  NATURE 


MORN  AMID  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Morn  amid  the  mountains ! 

Lovely  solitude ! 
Gushing  streams  and  fountains 

Murmur,  "  God  is  good !  God  is  good 

Now  the  glad  sun,  breaking, 

Pours  a  golden  flood  ; 
Deepest  vales,  awaking, 

Echo,  "  God  is  good !    God  is  good  !  " 

Hymns  of  praise  are  ringing 

Through  the  leafy  wood ; 
Songsters,  sweetly  singing, 

Warble,  "  God  is  good  !  God  is  good ! 

Wake,  and  join  the  chorus, 

Man,  with  soul  endued; 
He  whose  smile  is  o'er  us, 

God,  O,  God  is  good  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SPRING  EVENING. 

What  more  fine  can  be, 

What  more  full  of  glee, 
Than  in  spring,  when  day's  declining, — 

When  the  blossoms  fair 

Perfume  all  the  air, 
And  the  western  clouds  are  shining, — 
When  the  birds  so  fondly  twitter, 
And  the  sharp,  shrill  crickets  titter, 

Honey-laden  bees 

Murmur  with  the  breeze, — 
O,  what  time  for  thought  is  fitter  ? 

Then  we  leave  our  home, 

To  the  fields  we  roam, 
And  we  sit  amongst  the  haying,— 

Hear  the  pleasant  sound 

Of  the  birds  around, 
Or  some  far-off  flute  that's  playing, — 
Hear  the  frogs  croak  out  their  chorus 
From  the  sedgy  marsh  before  us ! 

How  the  shrill,  clear  notes 

From  their  dewy  throats 
Back  to  summer  thoughts  restore  us ! 


SONGS   OF  NATURE. 


315 


But  'tis  night !  away  ! 
For  we  must  not  stay 

Chatting  here  so  late  together. 
Yet  'twere  sweet  to  stay 
'Mid  the  new-mown  hay, 

All  night  long,  this  summer  weather  : 

Time  is  o'er  for  chat  and  dancing ; 

Now  the  gentle  moon,  advancing, 
Calls  the  stars  out,  all, 
Sets  them,  great  and  small, 

In  the  clear,  blue  heavens  glancing. 


J.  S.  D. 


346 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SPRING  IS  COMING 

Old  Winter  must  away,  away ! 
He  mopes  about  the  house  all  day, 
Looking  so  heavy  and  forlorn  : 
He  must  get  ready  and  be  gone. 

See  Spring  before  the  door  appear ! 
He's  come  to  pull  him  by  the  ear, 
To  take  him  by  the  beard  so  gray  : 
He  hath  a  rude,  mischievous  way. 

Gay  Spring  begins  to  knock  and  beat;  — 
Hark,  hark  !  I  know  his  voice  so  sweet ; 
With  little  lily-buds  he  drums, 
And  rattles  at  the  door,  and  hums. 

And  you  must  let  him  in  straightway ; 
For  he  hath  servants  in  his  pay, 
Whom  he  can  summon  to  his  aid, 
And  thunder  through  —  he's  not  afraid. 

First  comes  young  Morning-wind  so  wild, 
A  chubby-cheeked  and  rosy  child  ; 
He'll  bluster  till  all  ring  again ; 
He'll  make  you  let  his  master  in. 


SONGS  OF  NATURE. 


347 


See  Sunshine,  gallant  knight,  advance ! 
He'll  shiver  through  with  golden  lance. 
Flower-fragrance,  cunning  flatterer  —  think 
How  he  can  wind  through  every  chink. 

The  Nightingale  to  th'  onset  sounds  : 
And  hark  !  and  hark  !  the  note  rebounds  : 
An  echo  from  my  soul  doth  ring ! 
Come  in,  come  in,  thou  joyous  Spring ! 


J.  S.  D. 


348 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SUMMER  SONG. 


Sweet  summer  is  coming; 

How  gayly  sings  the  lark  at  morn ! 
The  wild  bee  is  humming 

Around  the  flowery  thorn. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

What  charming,  wild  music  in  grove  and  in  vale! 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Sweet  summer,  thou  art  coming;  I  feel  the  inspiring 
gale. 


CHORUS. 

Ay,  summer,  thou  art  coming : 
Thou  mildest,  loveliest,  hail ! 


SONGS  OF  NATURE. 


349 


HARVEST  SONG. 
IMITATED. 

Autumn  winds  are  sighing, 
Summer  glories  dying, 

Harvest  time  is  nigh. 
Cooler  breezes,  quivering, 
Through  the  pine  groves  shivering, 

Sweep  the  troubled  sky. 

See  the  fields,  how  yellow ! 
Clusters,  bright  and  mellow, 

Gleam  on  every  hill : 
Nectar  fills  the  fountains, 
Crowns  the  sunny  mountains, 

Runs  in  every  rill. 

Now  the  lads  are  springing, 
Maidens  blithe  are  singing, 

Swells  the  harvest  strain  ; 
Every  field  rejoices ; 
Thousand  thankful  voices 

Mingle  on  the  plain. 

Then,  when  day  declineth, 
And  the  mild  moon  shineth, 

EE 


35U 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Tabors  sweetly  sound ; 
And,  while  they  are  sounding, 
Fairy  feet  are  bounding 

O'er  the  moonlit  ground. 

Salis 


SONGS  OF  NATURE. 


351 


SONG  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 

'Tis  sweet  to  walk  the  fields  of  spring, 
When  first  the  feathered  warblers  sing ; 
When,  peeping  forth  'mid  youthful  green, 
The  modest  violets  are  seen. 

Sweet  is  the  breath  of  summer  morn, 
And  sweet  the  sight  of  golden  corn. 
And  sweet,  at  evening's  closing  hour, 
The  balmy  breeze,  the  fragrant  flower. 

'Tis  sweet  when  harvest  glories  shine, 
When  glowing  clusters  load  the  vine, 
When  bows  the  heavy  tree,  and  pours 
In  autumn's  lap  its  juicy  stores. 

'Tis  sweet,  ay,  sweet  when  winter's  blast 
O'er  autumn's  fruitful  fields  hath  passed ; 
Earth  folds  her  snowy  mantle  round, 
And  lies  in  wintry  slumbers  bound. 

To  every  season,  then,  we  sing, — 
Sweet  summer  time,  and  sparkling  spring, 
And  autumn  rich,  and  winter  drear  : 
To  grateful  hearts  they  all  are  dear. 


352 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MORNING  SONG. 

It  breaks  —  it  breaks  from  eastern  chambers  — 

The  golden  morning  ray  : 
All  hail,  thou  bright  and  blessed  morning! 

All  hail,  thou  new-born  day! 

It  bursts  —  it  bursts  from  eastern  chambers  — 

A  flood  of  glorious  light : 
He  comes  —  he  comes  —  the  sun  in  splendor, 

Victorious  o'er  the  night. 

I  welcome  thee,  thou  lovely  morning, 

And  thank  the  kindly  Power, 
Whose  smile  of  love  bids  darkness  vanish, 

And  wakes  the  morning  hour. 


SONGS  OF  NATURE. 


353 


TO  THE  SETTING  SUN. 

How  I  love  to  see  thee, 
Golden  evening  sun ! 

How  I  love  to  see  thee, 
When  the  day  is  done  ! 

Sweetly  thou  recallest 

Childhood's  joyous  days  — 

Hours  when  I  so  fondly 

Watched  thy  evening  blaze. 

When,  in  tranquil  glory, 
Thou  didst  sink  to  rest, 

O,  what  holy  longings 
Fired  my  swelling  breast ! 

"  Were  it  mine  thus  brightly 
Virtue's  course  to  run,  — 

Mine  to  sleep  so  sweetly, 
All  my  labors  done  !  " 

Thus  I  wished  in  childhood, 
When  I  gazed  on  thee, 

Wished  my  heavenly  pathway 
Like  thine  own  might  be. 

EE  2 


354 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Still  I  love  to  see  thee, 
Golden  evening  sun : 

How  I  love  to  see  thee, 
When  the  day  is  done  ! 


SONGS  OF  NATURE. 


O,  HOW  SWEET,  WHEN  DAYLIGHT  CLOSES. 

O,  how  sweet,  when  daylight  closes, 
When  the  western  sun  reposes, 
And  the  dew  is  on  the  roses, 
Brothers,  then  how  sweet  to  rove 
Through  the  meadow  and  the  grove ! 

O,  how  sweet,  when  toil  is  ending,  — 
Day  and  night  so  softly  blending,  — 
Sweet  to  hear  our  songs  ascending, 
Brothers,  from  the  star-lit  grove  — 
Songs  of  gratitude  and  love  ! 

O,  how  sweet  the  bell's  low  pealing, 

On  the  ear  so  softly  stealing ! 

Home  we  go  with  grateful  feeling, 
Pray  to  God  who  reigns  above, 
And,  with  songs  of  praise  and  love, 
Sink  to  rest. 


356 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


NIGHT  SONG. 

Murmur,  gentle  lyre, 

Through  the  lonely  night  • 
Let  thy  trembling  wire 

Waken  dear  delight. 

Though  the  tones  of  sorrow 
Mingle  in  thy  strain, 

Yet  my  heart  can  borrow 
Pleasure  from  the  pain. 

Hark  !  the  quivering  breezes 
List  thy  silvery  sound ; 

Every  tumult  ceases ; 
Silence  reigns  profound. 

Hushed  the  thousand  noises ; 

Gone  the  noonday  glare ; 
Gentle  spirit-voices 

Stir  the  midnight  air. 

Earth  below  is  sleeping, — 
Meadow,  hill,  and  grove; 

Angel  stars  are  keeping 
Silent  watch  above. 


SONGS  OF  NATURE. 


SPRING  SONG. 

Sweet  Spring  is  returning ; 

She  breathes  on  the  plain, 
And  meadows  are  blooming 

In  beauty  again. 
Now  fair  is  the  flower, 

And  green  is  the  grove, 
And  soft  is  the  shower 

That  falls  from  above. 

Full  gladly  I  greet  thee, 

Thou  loveliest  guest : 
Ah,  long  have  we  waited 

By  thee  to  be  blessed  ! 
Stern  Winter  threw  o'er  us 

His  heavy,  cold  chain  ; 
We  longed  to  be  breathing 

In  freedom  again. 

And  then,  O  thou  kind  one, 

Thou  earnest  so  mild  ; 
And  mountain,  and  meadow, 

And  rivulet,  smiled : 
The  voice  of  thy  music 

Was  heard  in  the  grove  ; 
The  balm  of  thy  breezes 

Invited  to  rove. 


358 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Now  welcome,  thou  loved  one, 

Again  and  again  ; 
And  bring  us  full  many 

Bright  days  in  thy  train ; 
And  bid  the  soft  Summer 

Not  linger  so  long  : 
E'en  now  we  are  waiting 

To  greet  him  in  song. 


SONGS  OF  NATURE. 


&59 


NIGHT  SONG. 

I  saw  the  smiling,  golden  sun3 
Sink  to  his  rest  when  day  was  done; 
And  this  methought  his  parting  strain  : 
"  Loved  friends,  I  greet  you  soon  again." 

Then  starry  Evening  floated  down, 
And  spread  her  veil  o'er  field  and  town: 
And  when  mild  moonlight  tipped  the  hill, 
Noise  fled  away,  and  all  was  still. 

When  moon  and  stars  shed  silvery  light, 
Burns  not  devotion's  flame  more  bright  ? 
Now  solemn  midnight  reigns  around  ; 
Each  living  thing  in  sleep  is  bound; 
My  neighbor's  pale  and  feeble  light 
Hath  ceased  to  cheer  the  lonely  night ; 
Kind  Heaven  has  heard  his  evening  prayer  ; 
Now,  worn  with  toil,  he  slumbers  there. 
The  watchman  still,  with  straining  sight, 
Stands  gazing  out  upon  the  night. 
'Tis  vain,  O  watchman :  home  to  sleep ! 
Does  not  our  God  a  night-watch  keep? 

Here,  by  the  dim  lamp's  flickering  beam, 
All  silent  round  me  as  a  dream, 
The  noise  and  glare  of  daylight  o'er, 
Sweet  Peace  revisits  me  once  more. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


In  God  I  trust,  who  o'er  his  sheep 
A  faithful  watch  will  ever  keep. 
"  Though  mother's  son  forgotten  be," 
He  says,  "  I'll  still  remember  thee." 
And  now  in  sleep  my  eyes  I  close ; 
Fearless,  on  God  my  thoughts  repose; 
Beneath  a  watchful  Father's  sight, 
I  yield  me  to  the  arms  of  Night. 


SONGS  OF  NATURE. 


BURIAL  OF  THE  SEED. 

Now,  my  seed,  thy  grave  is  made ; 
In  thy  silent  chamber  laid, 

Thou  mayst  slumber  lightly: 
May  the  sun  his  radiance  lend, 
And  the  dews  of  heaven  descend 

On  thy  pillow  nightly. 

Couldst  thou  speak,  thou  gentle  one, 
Couldst  thou  feel  what  I  have  done, 

Thou  wouldst  whisper,  weeping, 
"  Ah,  green  earth  and  bright  blue  skies 
Never  more  may  greet  my  eyes, 

All  in  darkness  sleeping." 

Yet  sleep  on,  thou  seedling  dear; 
Sweetly  sleep,  nor  dream  of  fear ; 

Soon,  from  slumber  waking, 
Once  again  shalt  thou  behold 
Morning  sunlight,  bright  as  gold, 

O'er  the  green  earth  breaking. 

I  at  last  must  sink  like  thee ; 
Hands  of  love  shall  bury  me, 

Heaping  cold  earth  o'er  me ; 
But  when  God,  from  yonder  skies, 
Bids  the  slumbering  dead  arise, 

May  I  wake  to  glory ! 


332 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SUMMER. 

Now  tne  sun,  with  burning  glare, 
Lengthens  noontide  hours; 

Men  to  cooling  vales  repair, 
Or  to  shady  bowers. 

Slowly  through  the  meadow-green 
Sluggish  streams  are  flowing ; 

Ah  along  their  banks  are  seen 
Roses  deeply  glowing. 

Come,  we'll  seek  the  leafy  grove, 

Sip  the  cooling  fountain, 
And,  when  evening  steals,  we'll  rove 

Round  the  shady  mountain. 

Then,  at  nightfall,  will  we  throng 
Home  through  balmy  flowers, 

And,  with  many  a  grateful  song, 
Bless  the  summer  hours. 


SONGS  OF  NATURE. 


363 


WINTER  SONG. 

How  deep  a  sleep  hath  bound  thee! 
A  snowy  shroud  is  round  thee, 

O  Earth,  our  mother  fair ! 
Where  now  are  spring's  gay  flowers, 
And  summer's  golden  hours, 

And  those  green  robes  thou  once  didst  wear  ? 

How  tranquil  are  thy  slumbers  ! 
No  shepherd's  tuneful  numbers 

By  vale  or  stream  resound. 
Sweet  summer  songs  are  over; 
The  swallow  —  joyous  rover  — 

In  all  our  fields  no  more  is  found 

A  Father's  hand  hath  dressed  thee 
In  wintry  robes ;  so  rest  thee 

Beneath  his  watchful  sight : 
Thy  wintry  slumbers  breaking, 
We  soon  shall  see  thee  waking 

In  radiant  robes  of  lovely  light. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  LARK. 

Lo,  the  blithesome  lark  is  soaring 
Far  aloft  through  morning  skies ; 

Songs  of  grateful  gladness  pouring, 
Higher,  higher  see  him  rise. 

Thousand  warblers  now  are  springing 
Up  to  meet  the  welcome  morn ; 

Sky  and  grove  with  joy  are  ringing  ;  — 
Hark !  the  wild  entrancing  horn  ! 

Every  mountain  altar  blazes; 

Incense  sweet  to  Heaven  ascends; 
Meadows  waft  their  silent  praises ; 

Every  flower  adoring  bends. 

Man,  awake  from  heavy  slumbers ; 

Morning  breaks  serenely  bright ; 
Songs  of  praise,  in  tuneful  numbers, 

Raise  to  Him  who  rules  the  night. 


SONGS  OF  NATURE. 


365 


BUGLE  SONG. 

How  sweet  the  sound, 

When  woods  around 
Have  heard  the  pealing  horn ! 

From  bush  and  brake 

Glad  echoes  wake, 
And  hail  the  welcome  morn  —  come,  morn  f 

Each  heart  beats  high, 

And  gleams  each  eye 
To  catch  the  welcome  tone ; 

Like  mist  that  flies 

From  morning  skies, 
All  sorrow  now  is  gone. 

How  fresh  the  breeze ! 

How  bright  the  trees  ! 
How  golden-bright  the  day ! 

The  sparkling  rill 

Goes,  murmuring  still, 
Through  woodlands  far  away. 

How  sweet  the  sound, 

When  woods  around 
Have  heard  the  pealing  horn ! 

From  bush  and  brake 

Glad  echoes  wake, 
And  hail  the  welcome  morn  —  come,  morn ! 


366 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SERENADE. 

Awake,  my  trembling  lyre, 
On  midnight's  quivering  breezes, 
And  let  thy  silvery  music 
Steal  softly  o'er  the  loved  one, 
And  soothe  her  soul  to  rest. 

Through  memory's  magic  chambers 
Bid  pass  the  forms  of  beauty, 
Till,  lost  in  heavenly  rapture, 
Her  eye  shall  see  the  glories,  — 
Her  ear  shall  hear  the  music  — 
The  music  of  the  blest ! 


SONGS  OF  NATURE. 


367 


THE  RIVULET. 

I  love  the  little,  laughing  rill, 

That,  all  the  livelong  day, 
Goes  sparkling,  singing,  dancing  still, 

Through  meadows  far  away. 

O,  oft  I've  chased  that  sportive  stream 

In  summer's  sunny  hours, 
And  watched  each  silvery  ripple  gleam, 

Or  plucked  the  bordering  flowers. 

And  still  I  love  to  stand  and  gaze 

Along  its  winding  shore, 
And  dream  of  happy,  happy  days, 

That  will  return  no  more. 

But  life,  like  thee,  flows  on,  sweet  rill; 

And  I,  like  thee,  must  haste, 
Each  day,  to  do  my  Father's  will, 

Nor  turn  one  hour  to  waste. 


368 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  FORGET-ME-NOT. 

Go,  at  moonlight's  dreamy  hour, 
Where  the  silvery  ripples  shine ; 

Mark  a  little,  lovely  flower  : 
Be  that  lovely  floweret  thine 

Mild  as  heaven's  own  blue,  it  beameth 
Like  a  clear  and  cloudless  day ; 

Image  of  true  love,  it  seemeth 
To  the  heart  sweet  words  to  say. 

And  methinks  its  blue  eyes  glisten, 
Full  of  love  and  tender  thought, 

While  from  far  it  whispers,  (listen  !) 
"  O  forget,  forget  me  not  1 " 


HOME   AND  LIBERTY. 


HOME  AND  LIBERTY. 


THE  WATCH-FIRE 

Wife  and  child,  a  peaceful  sleep ! 
'Tis  for  that  my  watch  I  keep ; 
Through  the  dark  and  chilly  night, 
Think  on  you,  and  cry  with  might, 
"  Liberty  or  death!" 

Hark  !  again  that  piercing  peal 
Smites  the  foeman's  heart  like  steel ; 
Glorious  watchword  !  through  the  night 
Man  to  man  calls  out  with  might, 
"  Liberty  or  death  !  " 

Where  yon  faithful  watch-fires  glow, 
Bold-defying  stands  the  foe  ; 
Still  the  cry  rings  through  the  night ; 
Guard  to  guard  calls  out  with  might, 
"  Liberty  or  death !  " 

When  a  shudder  strikes  the  foe, 
And  his  blood  runs  cold  and  slow, 
He  may  blame  the  chilly  night: 
'Tis  our  watchword's  fearful  might, 
"  Liberty  or  death  !  " 


372 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


When  the  battle-storm  raves  high,  — 
Leaden  hail-stones  whizzing  by, — 
Freedom's  morn  shall  break  the  night, 
By  that  glorious  watchword's  might, 
"  Liberty  or  death  !  " 

Collin. 


HOME  AND  LIBERTY. 


THE  GERMAN'S  NATIVE  LAND. 

Know  ye  the  land  where,  tall  and  green, 
The  ancient  forest-oaks  are  seen  1 
Where  the  old  Rhine-waves  sounding  run 
Through  vineyards  gleaming  in  the  sun  1 — • 
We  know  the  lovely  land  full  well : 
'Tis  where  the  free-souled  Germans  dwell. 

Know  ye  the  land  where  truth  is  told, 
Where  word  of  man  is  good  as  gold  ? — 
The  honest  land,  where  love  and  truth 
Bloom  on  in  everlasting  youth  ?  — 
We  know  that  honest  land  full  well : 
'Tis  where  the  free-souled  Germans  dwell. 

Know  ye  the  land  where  each  vile  song 
Is  banished  from  the  jovial  throng  ?  — 
The  sacred  land,  where,  free  from  art, 
Religion  sways  the  simple  heart  ?  — 
We  know  that  sacred  land  full  well : 
'Tis  where  the  free-souled  Germans  dwell. 


G  G 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


PATRIOTIC  SONG 

God  bless  the  Saxon  land 
Firm  may  she  ever  stand 

Through  storm  and  nigh* 
When  the  wild  tempests  rave, 
Ruler  of  wind  and  wave, 
Father  eternal,  save 

Us  by  thy  might ! 

Lo,  our  hearts'  prayers  arise 
Far  through  the  upper  skies  — 

Regions  of  light. 
He  who  hath  heard  each  sigh. 
Watches  each  weeping  eye,  — 
He  is  forever  nigh, 

Venger  of  right ! 


HOME   AND  LIBERTY. 


375 


HOMESICKNESS. 

Beloved  land  no  tie  is  fonder 

Than  tha  which  binds  my  heart  to  thee  ; 
Beloved  land,  where'er  my  footsteps  wander, 

Dimly  through  tears  thy  form  I  see  ; 
My  straining  eyes  seek  thy  blue  mountains ; 

As  the  wrecked  seaman  yearns  the  land  to  see, 
So  do  I  yearn  to  greet  once  more  thy  mountains. 

Soaring  aloft  in  silent  majesty,  — 
Thy  calm,  blue  lakes,  and  cooling  fountains, 

And  murmuring  rivers,  fresh  and  free. 
The  wide  world's  pomp  is  cold  and  dreary  : 
Thou,  thou  alone,  loved  land,  canst  cheer  me  : 

I  pine  for  thee !  I  pine,  I  pine  for  thee ! 


376 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


FESTIVE  SONG. 

Up  !  my  German  brothers,  wake,  ho ! 

Festally  we'll  spend  the  night ; 
Loud  our  songs  of  cheer  shall  echo, 

Till  the  morning-star  beams  bright. 
Now  unstop  the  precious  fountains; 

Here's  the  genuine  German  wine, 
Ripened  on  the  German  mountains, 

Pressed  beside  the  ancient  Rhine. 

Is  there  one  who  proudly  prizes 

Foreign  speech  and  foreign  drink?  — 
German  wines  and  words  despises?  — 

From  our  presence  let  him  slink ! 
Swell  aloft  the  ready  chorus ! 

Hölty,  Hagedorn,  and  Gleim 
Noble  songs  shall  set  before  us, 

For  we  love  the  German  rhyme. 


Miller. 


HOME  AND  LIBERTY. 


377 


THE  EXILE'S  RETURN. 


Home  of  my  youth,  again  I  greet  thee; 

Scenes  of  my  childhood,  hail  once  more; 
Blessed  be  the  breeze  that  breathes  so  sweetly; 

'Tis  thine  own  breath,  my  native  shore. 
But,  ah,  the  friends  who  here  should  meet  me, 

In  foreign  lands  they  roam,  they  sleep  : 
Thou  wide,  wild  sea,  uuce  more  I  greet  thee; 

My  home  is  on  a  pathless  deep. 


CG2 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


NOTE  A.    Page  39. 

The  River  Bidassoa  rises  in  the  Pyrenees,  and  empties  into 
the  Bay  of  Biscay,  at  Fontarabia.  It  has  been,  in  days  of 
yore,  a  subject  of  much  dispute  between  France  and  Spain, 
and  the  scene  of  many  a  sharp  struggle.  It  is  now  the  com- 
mon property  of  the  two  countries,  those  who  cross  over  to 
France  paying  duties  to  her,  and  those  who  pass  the  contrary 

'  way,  to  Spain.  The  old  bridge,  too,  is  said  to  have  been 
built  by  the  two  countries  jointly.  This  bridge,  or  its 
neighborhood,  was  somewhat  memorable  in  the  Peninsular 
war  ;  but  I  have  not  been  able  to  ascertain  where  or  whether 
any  such  event  actually  took  place  as  appears  to  be  intended 
in  the  ballad.  Nor  do  I  know  what  Mina  is  meant.  The 
name  is  famous  in  Spanish  history.  I  have  not,  moreover, 
been  able  to  find  any  account,  in  the  books  of  the  travellers,  of 
that  statue  of  Mina,  on  the  Bidassoa  bridge,  which  is  repre- 
sented as  working  such  an  effect  on  the  Spaniards.  As  every 
legend  must  have  an  origin  somewhere,  probably  this  legend, 

^  excepting  its  general  circumstances,  had  its  origin  in  our 
author's  mind. 


NOTE  B.    Page  43. 

On  the  platform  of  the  Strasburg  Cathedral  may  be  seen, 
among  other  names,  that  of  Goethe,  carved  during  his  aca- 
demic years. 


382 


NOTES. 


NOTE  C.    Page  53. 

A  few  particulars  of  Korner's  history  must  be  stated  by 
way  of  explaining  and  illustrating  some  of  the  pieces  trans- 
lated from  him,  and  may  interest  the  reader. 

Charles  Theodore  Körner  was  a  young  German  soldier, 
scholar,  poet,  and  patriot.  He  was  born  at  Dresden,  in  the 
autumn  of  1791,  and  fell  in  battle  for  his  country  at  the  early 
age  of  twenty-two.  To  him  might  be  well  applied,  with  a 
little  variation,  part  of  the  language  in  which  Shakspeare 
causes  Hamlet  to  be  described: 

"  O,  what  a  noble  mind  is  here  ! .  .  .  . 
The  minstrel s,  soldier's,  scholar's  eye,  tongue,  sword  !  " 

On  account  of  bodily  weakness,  young  Körner  had  to  spend 
the  greater  part  of  his  earlier  years  in  the  open  air.  Most  of 
that  which  makes  parents  in  general  vain  of  their  children,  he 
learned  late.  But  he  showed,  from  the  earliest,  a  tender  heart, 
and  yet  a  firm  will,  great  strength  of  attachment,  and  quick- 
ness of  fancy.  His  early  antipathy  to  every  thing  French 
was  remarkable.  By  exercise  in  the  open  air,  he  soon  gained 
great  gymnastic  strength  and  skill.  His  taste  was  great  for 
the  natural  sciences  and  the  fine  arts,  particularly  music  and 
poetry.  For  all  of  these  he  had  a  fine  natural  organization, 
and  in  all,  his  eye,  ear,  and  hand,  were  early  exercised.  He 
used  to  compose  songs,  and  sing  them  to  the  guitar  and  violin, 
with  which  he  would  roam  about  as  a  Troubadour.  Schiller's 
ballads  were  probably  what  first  echoed  and  encouraged  from 
;  'iroad  the  deep  feelings  of  Körner's  heart. 

In  his  seventeenth  year,  he  entered  on  the  study  of  mining, 
3t  Freyburg,  where  he  staid  two  years.  He  has  written  sev- 
eral very  stirring  songs  in  relation  to  this  pursuit,  picturing 
the  interest  and  excitement  of  the  miner's  life,  telling  how, 


NOTES. 


383 


hand  in  hand  with  Vulcan,  he  conquers  the  subterranean  world, 
fights  down  old  Cobold,  and,  entering  into  an  eternal  league 
with  Pluto,  roams  fearlessly  through  his  kingdom  of  terror. 
From  Freyburg,  after  a  short  interval  of  miscellaneous  trav- 
elling, Körner  went  to  Leipsic  University,  where,  however,  on 
account  of  dissensions  that  prevailed  among  the  students,  and 
which  he  did  his  best,  vainly,  to  appease,  he  remained  but  a 
short  time.  He  next  went  to  Vienna,  where,  in  the  course  of 
fifteen  months,  he  wrote,  besides  several  lyrical  pieces,  two 
volumes  of  comedies,  and  three  or  four  tragedies,  of  which, 
probably,  Zriny,  "the  Hungarian  Leonidas,"  as  the  hero  of 
the  play  has  been  called,  is  the  most  celebrated.  His  success 
in  this  department  gained  him  the  place  of  theatre  poet. 

But  Korner's  fame  as  a  dramatic  writer  is  almost  lost  in 
his  glory  as  the  minstrel  and  martyr  of  liberty  and  patriotism, 
or,  to  use  an  expression  literally  corresponding  to  the  German 
idiom,  "freedom  and  Fatherland."  While  at  Vienna,  he 
heard  the  call  of  Prussia  upon  her  sons  to  arm  against  French 
oppression.  It  found  a  faithful  son  in  him.  He  broke  away 
from  the  thousand  charms  of  the  gay  city  early  in  1813.  In 
the  words  of  one  of  his  own  songs,  addressing  his  country, 
"  Neither  music  nor  love  could  longer  stay  the  storm  of  his 
soul. 

Smiles  of  love  and  songs  of  gladness  — 

He  must  now  all  these  resign, 
Taste  the  parting  cup  of  sadness, 

And  be  thine." 

"  Often,"  he  says,  however,  "  through  his  tears,  has  he  cast 
back  a  glance  toward  the  past,"  and 

"  On  the  melodious  bridge  of  song 
Would  his  yearning  heart  glide  back 
To  the  golden  land  of  love." 

lie  repaired  to  Breslau,  and  joined  a  corps  of  volunteers 
collected  and  commanded  by  Major  Liitzow,  composed  of 


384 


NOTES. 


several  hundred  refined  and  distinguished  young  men,  of 
which  body  he  allerward  became  lieutenant.  This  corps 
gained  the  name  of  "  Liitzow's  wild  Chase,"  which  is  the  title 
of  one  of  Korner's  songs.  The  corps  was  consecrated  in  the 
village  church  a  few  days  after  Korner's  arrival.  The  conse- 
cration ode  was  written  by  himself.  A  sermon  was  preached^ 
and  the  whole  ended  with  Luther's  celebrated  hymn,  "  Our 
God  is  a  firm  fortress." 

It  was  during  the  leisure  moments  that  he  could  steal  from 
field  and  camp  duty,  Körner  composed  most  of  those  martial 
songs  which  were  afterward  collected  into  the  volume  called 
"Lyre  and  Sword."  These  ballads  are  truly  wonderful  pro- 
ductions of  genius.  They  are  perfect  as  pieces  of  art,  and  yet 
have  a  simplicity  which  no  song-writer  but  Burns  equals. 
They  blend  in  the  most  remarkable  manner  sweetness  of 
melody  with  force,  directness,  and  fire.  A  kindling  spirit  of 
religion,  as  well  as  patriotism,  breathes  through  them  all. 
Well  might  he  be  called  "  tlii3  inspired  singer."  It  seems  al- 
most impossible  to  do  at  once  full  justice  to  the  meaning  and 
the  melody  of  his  ballads  in  a  translation. 

One  of  Korner's  songs  was  written  under  singular  circum- 
stances. During  a  temporary  and  pretended  truce  (properly 
ruse)  on  the  part  of  the  French,  Major  Liitzow,  with  his 
cavalry,  was  on  his  way  to  join  the  infantry  of  his  legion,  and 
had  reached  Kitzen,  a  village  near  Leipsic,  when  suddenly 
he  found  himself  surrounded  by  overpowering  numbers  of 
foemen.  Körner  was  sent  to  ask  an  explanation,  instead  of 
which  he  received  a  sword-blow  from  the  leader  of  the  ene- 
my, which  was  followed  by  a  general  charge  upon  Liitzow's 
squadrons,  part  of  whom  were  taken  or  wounded,  and  the  rest 
dispersed  into  the  country.  Körner  was  carried  by  his  horse, 
wounded,  toward  the  nearest  wood.  While  engaged  in  bind- 
ing up  his  wounds,  he  saw  a  troop  of  the  enemy  riding  after 
him.  His  presence  of  mind  failed  him  not  Turning  toward 
the  wood,  he  called  out,  with  a  loud  voice,  "  Fourth  squadron, 
advance!"  which  disconcerted  the  enemy,  so  that  he  had 


NOTES. 


385 


time  to  plunge  farther  into  the  thicket.  In  this  situation,  he 
wrote  on  a  piece  of  leather,  and  deposited  in  a  tree,  the  piece 
afterwards  published  in  the  "Lyre  and  Sword,"  under  the 
title  "  Farewell  to  Life ;  written  as  I  lay  wounded  in  a  wood, 
and  expected  to  die."  The  "Sword  Song,"  so  called,  was 
written  in  his  pocket-book  only  two  hours  before  he  fell, 
during  a  halt  in  a  wood  previous  to  the  engagement,  and  was 
read  by  him  to  a  comrade  just  as  the  signal  was  given  for 
battle.  This  bold  song  represents  the  soldier  chiding  his 
sword,  which,  under  the  image  of  his  iron  bride,  is  impatient 
to  come  forth  from  her  chamber,  the  scabbard,  and  be  wedded 
to  him  on  the  field  of  battle,  where  each  soldier  shall  press 
the  blade  to  his  lips. 

Körner  fell  in  an  engagement  with  superior  numbers  near 
a  thicket  in  the  neighborhood  of  Rosenburg.  He  had  ad- 
vanced in  pursuit  of  the  flying  foe  too  far  beyond  his  com- 
rades. They  buried  him  under  an  old  oak  on  the  site  of  the 
battle,  and  carved  his  name  on  the  trunk.  The  Duke  of 
Mecklenburg-Schwerin  requested  Kö'rner's  father  to  let  his 
remains  be  placed  in  the  princely  cemetery  at  Ludwigslust ; 
but  the  father  preferred  that  they  should  rest  on  the  field  of 
the  battle,  where  he  intended  to  erect  a  monument.  Accord- 
ingly the  duke  sent  materials  for  a  tomb,  and  caused  a  cast- 
iron  monument  to  be  raised,  on  which  the  image  of  a  lyre, 
crossed  by  a  sword,  and  hung  with  a  wreath,  was  relieved, 
and  the  following  line  inscribed,  (being  part  of  the  last  line 
but  one  of  that  ballad  of  Korner's,  entitled  the  "  Sum- 
mons ") :  — 

"  Vergiss  die  treuen  Todten  nicht." 
(Forget  not  the  faithful  dead.) 

His  sister  lived  just  long  enough  to  finish  a  portrait  of  him, 
and  a  picture  of  his  burial-place,  and  then  followed  him  to 
the  unknown  land. 

I  l 


386 


NOTES. 


NOTE  D.    Page  57. 

Mr.  Strang,  in  his  "  Germany  in  1831,"  remarks  :  "  The 

mausoleum  of  the  late  queen  of  Prussia  stands  at  the 

extremity  of  a  long  walk,  surrounded  by  cypress,  weeping- 
willows,  and  larches.  This  structure,  which  is  from  a  design 
by  Schinkel,  is  of  polished  granite,  and  has  a  portico  support- 
ed by  four  columns  of  the  Doric  order.  A  flight  of  steps 
leads  to  a  doorway,  the  only  opening  in  front  of  the  building, 
on  both  sides  of  which  stand  two  handsome  vases,  also  of 
polished  granite,  in  each  of  which  at  present  flourishes  a 
many-flowered  hydrangia.  The  interior  of  the  mausoleum  is 
of  marble,  supported  by  four  dark  Italian  marble  columns. 
In  the  centre  of  this  apartment,  surmounting  the  tomb  in 
which  the  remains  of  the  queen  repose,  is  the  marble  statue 
of  her  late  majesty,  from  the  chisel  of  Rauch,  perhaps  the 
finest  work  ever  executed  by  that  celebrated  sculptor.  The 
queen  is  represented  asleep,  reclining  on  a  couch.  The  fine 
features,  though  still  and  calm,  seem  to  breathe  with  dream- 
ing life.  The  face  bespeaks  all  that  is  fair  and  beautiful 
in  woman,  and  indicates  the  sensibility  as  well  as  the  noble- 
ness of  soul  that  once  animated  the  lovely  original.  Art  and 
affection  have  here  united  to  gain  a  victory  over  the  forget- 
fulness  of  the  grave ;  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that  they 
are  entitled  to  the  laurel.  There  is  no  inscription  on  the 
marble,  or  on  the  mausoleum.  Queen  Louisa  required  none. 
The  virtues  of  her  life,  and  the  causes  of  her  early  death,  are 
not  only  well  known,  but  deeply  engraven  on  the  memory  of 
the  Prussian  people.  The  being  who  perished  of  a  broken 
heart,  for  the  wrongs  inflicted  by  a  foreign  foe  upon  her 
people,  and  who  dropped  into  an  untimely  tomb,  the  victim 
of  lacerated  patriotism,  is  indeed  worthy  to  be  the  idol  of  a 
nation's  memory.  The  starting  tear  which  bedewed  the  eyes 
of  several  ladies  who  were  viewing  this  heaven-speaking 
statue,  at  once  proclaimed,  in  our  presence,  their  secret  sym- 


NOTES. 


387 


pathy,  and  the  honest  grief  which  each  felt  for  the  fate  of  her 
whose  ashes  lay  below.  During-  the  liberation-war,  the  name 
of  Louisa  became  a  watchword  in  favor  of  national  inde- 
pendence, while  her  patriotism  proved  a  tutelar  genius  to  the 
Prussian  army." 

NOTE  E.    Page  60. 

An  allusion  to  the  exclamation  of  the  celebrated  Winkel- 
ried,  mentioned  in  Note  O. 

NOTE  F.    Page  63. 

The  uniform  of  the  corps  was  black,  with  a  red  stripe  on 
the  pantaloons. 

NOTE  G.     Page  69. 

This  piece,  the  author  says,  was  written  at  Landow,  where 
he  was  compelled  to  guard,  for  a  long  time,  the  banks  of  the 
Elbe.  The  translation  of  the  first  stanza  is  somewhat  loose  ; 
but  I  trust  the  sentiment,  and  something  of  the  fire,  of  the 
original,  is  there. 

NOTE  H.     Page  88. 

Every  one  familiar  with  the  original,  must  feel  that,  were 
it  in  this  piece  alone,  the  lamented  author  has  truly  adorned 
the  literature  of  his  native  country,  and  erected  a  peculiarly 
appropriate  and  most  worthy  monument  to  the  memory  of  his 
young  countryman,  whose  spirit  and  principles,  though  in  a 
different  sphere  of  action,  his  own  life  so  nobly  and  faith- 
fully expressed.  Dr.  Folien  was  called  to  that  harder  strife 
and  sorer  struggle,  to  which  "  the  Spirit  of  truth,  whom  the 
world  cannot  receive,"  summons  His  servants.    And  may  we 


388 


NOTES. 


not  well  believe  that  the  prayer,  with  which  the  poem  alluded 
to  closes,  has  been  fulfilled  for  our  revered  friend  and 
teacher,  —  that  he,  too,  has  found  the  "  crown  of  thorns 
and  starry  wreath  "  ? 

I  have  heard  Dr.  Folien  speak  of  Körner,  and  particularly 
of  his  patriotic  songs,  in  the  most  enthusiastic  terms.  He 
said  there  was  nothing  of  the  kind  equal  to  them  in  the  lit- 
erature of  the  world.  He  spoke  with  a  peculiar  emphasis  of 
the  young  author,  as  one  who  seemed  really  inspired.  I  hope 
the  specimens  which  have  been  given  in  this  volume  have 
revealed,  in  some  not  unworthy  measure,  the  grounds  of  such 
a  testimony. 

NOTE  I.     Page  135. 

This  song  opens  Act  III.  of  the  play.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
a  park ;  the  front  ground  covered  with  trees  ;  in  the  rear  an 
extensive  prospect. 

"  Mary  dances  along  with  swift  steps  through  the  trees. 
Hannah  Kennedy,  her  nurse,  follows  slowly." 

KENNEDY. 

"  You  skip  along  as  if  you'd  wings  indeed  ; 
I  cannot  follow  so  ;  I  pray  you,  stop  !  " 

Then  follow  the  first  eight  lines  of  Mary's  song. 

KENNEDY. 

**  O  my  dear  lady,  you're  a  captive  still, 
Only  your  prison  is  a  whit  enlarged. 
You  see  not  now  the  wall  of  our  abode, 
Only  because  'tis  hidden  from  your  eyes 
By  the  thick  foliage  of  the  park." 

MARY. 

"  O,  thanks,"  &c. 
Here  follow  the  next  two  paragraphs  of  the  song. 


NOTES. 


3&9 


KENNEDY. 

"  Alas,  dear  lady  !  you're  beside  yourself; 
This  strange  and  sudden  freedom  'wilders  you." 

Then  comes  the  next  paragraph  of  the  song. 

KENNEDY. 

"  Alas,  vain  wishes!    Do  you  not  perceive 
Yon  spying  steps  that  follow  us  afar? 
A  gloomy,  awful  warning  scares  away 
Every  kind-hearted  creature  from  our  path." 

MARY. 

"  No,  no,  good  Hannah  ;  trust  me,  not  in  vain 
Have  they  thrown  open  thus  my  prison-door. 
The  smaller  favor  prophesies  to  me 
Of  greater  good  to  come.    I  do  not  err. 
This  to  the  active  hand  of  love  I  owe. 
I  mark  herein  Lord  Leicester's  mighty  arm. 
They  will  enlarge  my  prison  by  degrees, 
By  less  accustom  me  to  greater,  till, 
At  last,  I  shall  behold  the  face  of  him 
Who  comes  to  loose  my  bonds  forevermore." 

KENNEDY. 

"  Ah,  queen  !  I  cannot  reconcile  these  things. 
But  yesterday  they  came  to  announce  your  death; 
And,  lo  !  to-day,  this  sudden  liberty  ! 
They  also  have  their  fetters  loosed,  I've  heard, 
Whose  everlasting  freedom  is  at  hand  !  " 

At  that  moment,  the  horns  are  heard,  which  announce  that 
Queen  Elizabeth  is  hunting  in  the  neighborhood.  And  here 
follow  the  closing  lines  of  the  song. 

I  feel  how  poorly  I  have  expressed,  in  the  translation,  the 
imitative  music  of  this  exquisite  piece.  I  leave  to  some  more 
fortunate  hand  that  most  perfect  line,  (the  fourth,)  describing 
the  dance  over  the  green  carpet  of  the  meadow  — 

"  Piüfen  den  leichten,  geflügelten  Schritt;  " 
1 1  2 


390  NOTES. 

and  also  that  beautiful  and  touching  address  to  the 
clouds  — 

"  Eilende  Wolken  !   Segler  der  Lüfte  !  " 


NOTE  J.     Page  138. 

This  helmet  was  one  which  Bertrand,  a  farmer,  who  lhed 
near  Joan's  father,  had  brought  from  one  of  the  neighboring 
market  towns.  The  manner  in  which  he  became  possessor 
of  it,  is  thus  described  in  the  play :  — 

BERTRAND. 

"  Myself  am  hardly  conscious  how  the  thing 
Came  to  my  hand.    I  was  at  Vaucouleurs  — 
Had  bought  me  iron  ware  —  the  market-place 
Was  all  alive  with  a  tumultuous  throng, 
For  travellers  had  just  come  from  Orleans, 
Breathless,  with  war  and  evil  tidings  charged. 
Soon  the  whole  town  in  uproar  ran  together  ; 
And,  as  I  forced  my  way  along  the  press, 
A  brown  Bohemian  woman,  with  this  helm, 
Accosted  me,  fixed  on  me  a  keen  eye, 
And  said,  '  You're  looking  for  a  helmet,  friend  , 
I  know  you  want  a  helmet ;  —  here,  take  this  ! 
Give  a  mere  trifle,  and  the  thing  is  yours.' 
— '  Go  to  the  lancers,  woman,'  I  replied  ; 
I  am  a  farmer ;  what  need  I  the  helm  ? ' 
Still  she  desisted  not,  but  further  spake  : 
4  No  man  can  say  he  needs  not,  in  these  times, 
The  helmet.    A  stepl  roof  above  the  brow 
Is  worth  far  more  just  now  than  house  of  stone.' 
And  thus  she  followed  me  from  street  to  street, 
And  seemed  as  she  would  force  the  helmet  on  me. 
I  took  it  —  looked  at  it — 'twas  clean  and  white, 
And  worthy  to  adorn  a  knightly  brow  ; 
And,  while  in  doubt  I  weighed  it  in  my  hand, 
And  on  the  singular  adventure  mused, 


NOTES. 


391 


Sudden  the  woman  vanished  from  my  sight  ; 
The  impetuous  current  of  the  swaying  crowd 
Had  borne  her  off,  and  left  the  helmet  mine." 

Joan,  who  is  standing  by,  immediately  seizes  the  helmet, 
as  intended  by  divine  Providence  for  her,  and  wears  it  ever 
after. 

The  tree,  alluded  to  at  the  end  of  the  third  stanza,  was  an 
old  Druid  oak,  near  Joan's  home,  which  wras  held  to  be 
enchanted,  and  which  she  thus  describes  in  the  sequel  of  the 
play:  — 

"  Hard  by  my  native  village  stands  an  old, 
Time-hallowed  image  of  God's  Mother,  shrine 
Of  many  a  distant  pilgrim's  pious  steps. 
A  holy  oak  spreads  near  its  sheltering  arms, 
For  miracles  of  blessed  influence  famed. 
Beneath  its  shadow  'twas  my  joy  to  sit 
And  watch  the  flock  :  my  heart  yearned  toward  that  tree; 
And  if  it  chanced  to  me,  some  poor  lamb  strayed 
Through  mountain  wilds,  I  found  it  in  my  dream, 
When  in  the  shadow  ofthat  oak  I  slept." 


NOTE  K.     Page  139. 

This  scene  opens  the  fourth  act  of  the  play.  It  is  neces- 
sary to  state,  by  way  of  explanation,  that  Joan,  at  the  close 
of  the  previous  act,  had  violated  her  vows  to  the  Virgin,  by 
falling  in  love  with  Lionel,  the  English  general,  when  she 
had  disarmed  him,  and  was  just  about  to  kill  him  on  the  field 
of  battle. 

The  scene  is,  "  A  hall,  gayly  decorated ;  the  columns  hung 
round  with  festoons;  —  behind  the  scene,  flutes  and  haut- 
boys." 

J  list  before  the  words,  «  Hark  !  ah  me  ! "  &c,  about  a  third 
of  the  way  through  the  song,  "  the  music  behind  the  scene 


392 


NOTES. 


changes  gradually  into  a  soft,  melting  melody."  And  before 
the  line,  "  Peaceful  crook,"  &c,  "  the  flutes  repeat ;  she  sinks 
into  a  still  melancholy." 

NOTE  L.     Page  174. 

This  title  refers  simply  to  the  form  of  the  verse  —  the 
character  of  the  rhythm. 

NOTE  M.    Page  185. 

These  specimens  of  Klopstock's  Odes  are  offered  with  a 
full  consciousness  that  I  have  but  very  imperfectly  succeeded 
in  making  my  English  imitate  the  rhythm,  while  representing 
the  sense  of  the  original.  I  hope  the  reader's  ear  will  recog- 
nize, in  the  latter  pieces,  enough  of  the  regularly-returning 
movement  and  melody  to  justify  their  being  divided  into  lines 
beginning  with  capitals ;  and  as  to  the  first,  if  the  form  of  that 
should  seem  more  declamatory  than  poetic,  I  would  plead,  in 
justification  of  having  inserted  the  piece,  (with  all  due  defer- 
ence to  Goethe's  too  minute  criticism,)  the  poetry  of  the 
thought,  and  sentiment,  and  imagery ;  although  it  may  still 
seem  to  many  unnecessary  to  have  undertaken  a  new  prose 
translation  after  the  excellent  one  by  William  Taylor,  of 
Norwich. 

NOTE  N.    Page  189. 

"  Hermann,  or,  as  the  Roman  historians  call  him,  Arminius, 
was  a  chieftain  of  the  Cheruscans,  a  tribe  in  Northern  Ger- 
many. After  serving  in  Illyria,  and  there  learning  the 
Roman  arts  of  warfare,  he  came  back  to  his  native  country, 
and  fought  successfully  for  its  independence.    He  defeated, 


NOT  KS. 


393 


beside  a  defile  near  Detmold,  in  Westphalia,  the  Roman 
legions  under  Varus,  with  a  slaughter  so  mortifying,  that  the 
Proconsul  is  said  to  have  killed  himself,  and  Augustus  to 
have  received  the  catastrophe  with  indecorous  expressions  of 
grief."  —  Taylor's  "Survey  of  German  Poetry." 

NOTE  O.    Page  11)3. 

The  following  account  of  the  battle  of  Sempach  is  trans- 
lated from  Zchokke's  "History  of  Switzerland  :"  — 

"  It  was  at  harvest-time.  The  sun  stood  high  and  blazed 
hot.  The  Swiss  fell  upon  their  knees  and  prayed.  Then 
they  rose  ;  four  hundred  of  Lucerne,  nine  hundred  from  the 
cantons,  one  hundred  from  Glarus,  Zug,  Gersau,  Entlibuch,  and 
Rothenburg.  All  rushed  furiously  against  the  iron  host.  In 
vain;  not  one  could  break  through.  Man  after  man  sank. 
Sixty  corpses  of  the  confederates  lay  bleeding  on  the  ground. 
All  staggered. 

" '  I  will  make  a  lane  for  freedom  ! '  cried  suddenly  a  thun- 
dering voice  :  '  Faithful,  fond  comrades,  have  a  care  for  my 
wife  and  child!'  Thus  spake  Arnold  Struthan,  of  Winkel- 
ried,  the  chivalric  Unterwaldener,  and  straightway  hugged  with 
both  arms  as  many  of  the  foemen's  spears  as  he  could,  buried 
them  in  his  body,  and  sank.  And  over  his  corpse  a  torrent  of 
the  confederates  broke  through  the  gap  in  the  iron  wall, 
storm-like,  crushing.  How  crashed  helm  and  armor  under 
the  blows  of  the  morning-stars  !  Then  many  hundred  spar- 
kling coats  of  mail  waxed  bloody-red  This  was  the  issue 

of  the  battle  at  Sempach,  on  the  ninth  day  of  the  Hay-month, 
1386 ;  such  the  eternally  beautiful  fruit  of  the  heroic  achieve- 
ment and  death-consecration  of  Arnold  von  Winkelried." 

The  word  translated  "  host,"  in  the  first  stanza,  is  "  Harst," 
(Ilorst?)  literally,  "nest."  It  proved  to  be  a  nest  of  "two- 
headed  eagles  "  to  the  Austrians. 


394 


NOTES. 


The  "misty  bridge,"  which  suggests  that  bold  and  beauti- 
ful comparison  in  the  last  stanza  but  one.  is  the  celebrated 
" Staub-briicke,"  or  "Spray-bridge,"  (literally,  Dust-bridge,] 
also  called  the  Devil's  bridge,  which  leads  from  Switzerland 
to  Italy. 

The  author  of  this  poem  is  a  brother  to  the  late  Dr.  Folien. 

NOTE  P.    Page  215. 

I  have  not  been  able  to  learn  that  this  vast  and  volumi- 
nous writer,  —  this  "Titan"  of  German  authors,  and  of 
German  poets,  too, — so  full  of  all  spirits  and  forms  of  poetry, 
—  ever  wrote  a  verse.  I  hope,  however,  to  be  more  than 
pardoned  for  introducing  here  a  few  passages  more  from  his 
"  Titan." 

The  hero,  Albano,  Count  of  Cesara,  is  on  his  way  to  revisit 
the  home  of  his  childhood,  the  enchanting  island,  Isola  Bella, 
in  Lago  Maggiore. 

"  Beneath  the  splendor  of  a  full  moon  they  went  on  board 
the  barque,  and  glided  away  over  the  gleaming  waters  

"  Cesara  sank  silently  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  glimmer- 
ing beauties  of  the  shore  and  the  night.  The  nightingales 
warbled,  as  if  inspired,  on  the  triumphal  gate  of  spring.  His 
heart  grew  in  his  breast  like  a  melon  under  its  glass  bell,  and 
his  breast  heaved  higher  and  higher  over  the  swelling  fruit 
All  at  once,  he  reflected  that  in  this  way  he  should  look  upon 
the  tulip-tree  of  the  sparkling  morn  and  the  garlands  of  the 
isle,  just  as  if  he  Avere  watching  an  artificial  Italian  silk-flow- 
er put  together,  stamen  by  stamen,  leaf  by  leaf :  —  then  he 
was  possessed  with  his  old  thirst  for  one  single  draining 
draught  from  nature's  horn  of  plenty ;  he  shut  his  eyes,  not  to 
qpen  them  again  till  he  should  stand  upon  the  highest  terrace 
c^'the  island  before  the  morning  sun  

"The  mantle  of  night  grew  thinner  and  cooler;  the  morn- 


NOTES. 


395 


ing  air  fanned  the  breast  like  a  living  wing;  the  song  of  the 
lark  mingled  with  the  songs  of  the  nightingales  and  of  the 
boatmen  —  and  he  heard,  beneath  his  bandage,  which  was 
growing  lighter  and  lighter,  the  joyful  discoveries  of  his 
friends,  who  saw,  in  the  open  cities  along  the  shore,  the 
swarms  of  men  springing  to  life,  and  on  the  waterfalls  of  the 
mountains,  the  alternate  reflections  of  clouds  and  ruddy  sky. 
At  last,  the  breaking  splendors  of  morn  hung  like  a  festoon 
of  Hesperides'-apples  around  the  distant  summits  of  the 
chestnut-trees;  —  and  now  they  disembarked  upon  Isola 
Bella. 

"  The  determined  dreamer  heard,  as  they  ascended  with 
him  the  ten  terraces  of  the  garden,  the  deeply-breathed  sigh 
of  overpowering  joy  close  at  his  side,  and  all  the  rapid  ex- 
clamations and  commands  of  astonishment ;  but  he  held  the 
bandage  fast,  and  went  blindfold  from  terrace  to  terrace, 
regaled  with  orange  fragrance,  refreshed  by  higher,  freer 
breeze.?,  fanned  by  laurel  foliage  ;  —  and  when  they  had 
gained,  at  last,  the  highest  terrace,  and  looked  down  upon  the 
lake,  heaving  its  green  waters  sixty  yards  below,  Schoppe 
cried,  'Now!  now!'  but  Cesara  said,  'No!  the  sun  first!' 
and  at  that  moment  the  morning  wind  flung  up  the  sunlight, 
gleaming  through  the  dark  twigs,  and  it  flamed  free  on  the 
summits,  —  and  Dian  forcibly  tore  off"  the  blinder,  and  said, 
'  Look  round  ! '  — '  O  God ! '  cried  the  youth,  with  a  shriek  of 
ecstasy,  as  all  the  gates  of  the  new  heaven  flew  open,  and 
the  Olympus  of  Nature,  with  its  thousand  enchanting  gods, 
sto  >d  around  him.  What  a  world  !  There  stood  the  Alps, 
like  brother  giants  of  the  old  world,  linked  together,  far  away 
in  the  past,  and  held  high  up  over  against  the  sun  the 
shining  shields  of  the  glaciers.  The  giants  had  on  blue 
girdles  of  forests ;  and  at  their  feet  lay  hills  and  vine- 
yards ;  and  through  the  aisles  and  arches  of  grape-clusters 
the  morning  winds  were  playing  with  cascades  as  with  water- 
ribbons;  and  the  liquid,  brimming  mirror  of  the  lake  hung 


NOTES. 


down  by  the  ribbons  from  the  mountains;  and  the  mountains 
trembled  far  down  in  the  mirror,  and  a  branch-work  of  chest- 
nut groves  formed  its  frame  Albano  turned  slowly  round 

and  round,  looked  to  the  heights,  into  the  depths,  into  the  sun, 
into  the  blossoms  ;  and  on  all  summits  the  alarm-fires  of 
mighty  Nature  were  burning,  and  in  all  depths  their  reflec- 
tions.   A  creative  earthquake  beat,  like  a  heart  under  the 

earth,  and  sent  forth  mountains  and  seas  O,  then,  when 

he  saw,  on  the  bosom  of  the  infinite  Mother,  the  little  swim- 
ming children,  as  they  went  gliding  along  under  every  wave 
and  under  every  cloud, —  and  when  the  morning  breeze  drove 
distant  ships  in  between  the  Alps,  —  and  when  Isold  Madre 
towered  up  opposite  to  him,  with  her  seven  gardens,  tempting 
him  to  lean  upon  the  air,  and  be  wafted  over  from  his  summit 
to  her  own,  —  and  when  he  saw  the  pheasants  darting  down 
from  the  madre  into  the  waves,  —  then  did  he  seem  to  stand 
like  a  newly-fledged  storm-bird  on  his  blooming  nest:  the 
morning  wind  spread  his  arms  abroad  like  wings,  and  he 
longed  to  cast  himself  over  the  terrace  after  the  pheasants, 
and  cool  his  heart  in  the  tide  of  Nature." 

"With  such  swelling  emotions  Albano  now  stood  alon? 
behind  the  palace,  toward  the  south,  when  a  sport  of  his  boy- 
ish years  occurred  to  him. 

"He  had,  namely,  often,  in  May,  during  a  heavy  wind, 
climbed  up  into  a  thick-limbed  apple-tree,  which  supported  a 
whole  green,  hanging  cabinet,  and  had  laid  himself  down  in 
the  arms  of  its  branches.  And  when,  in  this  situation,  the 
wavering  pleasure-grove  swung  him  about  amidst  the  sly 
sporting  of  the  lily-butterflies,  and  the  hum  of  bees,  and 
insects,  and  the  clouds  of  blossoms, — and  when  the  flaunting 
top  now  buried  him  in  rich  green,  now  launched  him  into  deep 
blue,  and  now  into  the  sunshine,  —  then  did  his  fancy  stretch 
the  tree  to  gigantic  dimensions;  it  grew  alone  in  the  universe, 
as  if  it  were  the  tree  of  endless  life  ;  its  roots  pierced  far  down 


NOTES. 


397 


into  the  abyss;  the  white  and  red  clouds  hung  upon  it  as 
blossoms,  the  moon  as  a  fruit,  the  little  stars  glistened  like 
dew ;  and  Albano  reposed  in  its  infinite  summit,  and  a  storm 
swayed  the  summit  from  day  into  night,  and  from  night  into 
day  

"  And  now  he  stood  looking  up  to  a  tall  cypress.  A  south- 
east breeze  had  arisen  from  its  siesta  in  Rome,  and,  flying 
along,  had  cooled  itself  by  the  way  in  the  tops  of  the  lemon- 
trees,  and  in  a  thousand  brooks,  and  now  lay  cradled  in  the 
arms  of  the  cypress.  Then  he  climbed  up  the  tree,  in  order, 
at  least,  to  tire  himself.  But  how  did  the  world  stretch  out 
before  him,  with  its  woods,  its  islands,  and  its  mountains, 
when  he  saw  the  thunder-cloud  lying  over  Rome's  seven 
hills,  just  as  if  that  old  spirit  were  speaking  from  the  gloom, 
which  once  wrought  in  the  seven  hills,  as  in  seven  Vesuviuses, 
that  had  stood  before  the  face  of  the  earth  so  many  centuries 
with  fiery  columns,  with  up-heaving  tempests,  and  had  over- 
spread it  with  clouds,  and  ashes,  and  fertility,  till  they  at  last 
rent  themselves  asunder!  The  mirror-wall  of  the  glaciers 
stood,  unmelted,  before  the  warm  rays  of  heaven,  and  only 
glistened  and  remained  cold  and  hard ;  from  the  broad 
expanse  of  the  lake  the  sunny  hills  seemed  on  every  hand  to 
rise  up  as  from  their  bath,  and  the  little  ships  of  men  seemed 
to  lie,  fast  stranded,  in  the  distance  ;  and,  floating  far  and 
wide  around  him,  the  great  spirits  of  the  past  went  by,  and 
under  their  invisible  tread  only  the  woods  bowed  themselves, 
the  flower-beds  scarcely  at  all."  


NOTE  Q.    Page  228. 

There  is  a  remarkable  coincidence  —  how  it  arose  I 
know  not  —  between  this  last  couplet  and  a  couplet  of  Cole- 
ridge, concluding  a  u  Sonnet,  composed  by  the  Sea-side, 
October,  1817:"- 

i  i 


398 


NOTES. 


"  Or,  listening  to  the  tide  with  closed  sight, 
Be  that  blind  bard,  who,  on  the  Chian  strand, 
By  those  deep  sounds  possessed,  with  inward  light 
Beheld  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey 
Rise  to  the  sicelling  of  the  voiceful  sea!  " 

Almost  word  for  word  — 

"  Und  Iliad  und  Odyssey 
Enstiegen  mit  Gesang  der  See." 

NOTE  R.    Page  236. 

I  trust  the  German  reader  will  not  think  I  have  suffered 
the  double  meaning  of  the  German  word  "Regiment"  to 
run  away  with  me  here.  I  am  aware  what  the  strict  sense  of 
the  author  is  —  that  old  Winter  journeys  back  and  forth  be- 
tween his  winter  residence  at  the  north  pole  and  his  summer 
residence  in  Switzerland,  to  keep  good  government  throughout 
his  dominions  — 

"  Da  ist  er  denn  bald. dort,  bald  hier, 
Gut  Regiment  zuführen." 

I  have  introduced  the  standing  army  by  name  merely  for 
the  sake  of  a  poor  rhyme. 

NOTE  S.    Page  247. 

I  have  met  with  no  less  than  three  different  readings  of 
this  line  in  the  original.    One  says, 

u  Es  dampft  der  Thal ;  es  rauscht  das  Meer." 
(The  vale  smokes  [with  fog  or  vapor] ;  the  sea  murmurs.) 


NOTES. 


399 


Another  says,  " Es  rujt  der  Thal,"  (The  vale  calls;)  and  a 
third  has  it,  "  Es  ruht  der  Thal,"  (The  vale  reposes.)  I  have 
combined  the  two  latter  ideas  in  my  version. 

NOTE  T.    Page  281. 

Henry  Nelson  Coleridge,  in  his  Preface  to  Coleridge's 
"Table  Talk,"  remarks  —  "What  Mr.  Dequincey  says  about 
the  Hymn  in  the  vale  of  Chamouni  is  just.  This  glorious 
composition,  of  upwards  of  ninety  lines,  is  truly  indebted  for 
many  images  and  some  striking  expressions  to  Frederica 
Brunn's  little  poem.  The  obligation  is  so  clear,  that  a  refer- 
ence to  the  original  ought  certainly  to  have  been  given,  as 
Coleridge  gave  in  other  instances.  Yet,  as  to  any  ungenerous 
wish  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Coleridge  to  conceal  the  obligation, 
I,'for  one,  totally  disbelieve  it:  the  Avords  and  images  that  are 
taken  are  taken  bodily  and  without  alteration,  and  not  the 
slightest  art  is  used  —  ana  a  little  would  have  sufficed  —  to 
disguise  the  fact  of  any  community  between  the  two  poems." 

This  paragraph,  so  far  as  it  touches  the  German  piece,  will 
hardly  satisfy  any  one  but  a  kinsman  of  Coleridge,  or  a  very 
partial  friend.  The  writer  speaks,  a  little  farther  on,  of  the 
German  lines  as  glorified  by  Coleridge.  Why  not  say,  also, 
that  his  composition  is  glorified  by  them  ?  For  how  can  any 
impartial  reader  of  the  German  help  feeling  this  to  be  the  fact  ? 
He  says,  a  little  art  would  have  sufficed  to  disguise  the 
fact  of  any  community  between  the  two  poems.  Yes;  but 
that  little  art  must  have  consisted  in  not  borrowing  from  Fred- 
erica  Brunn's  piece  any  thing  of  value ;  in  other  words, 
not  borrowing  from  it  at  all,  — for  it  is  all  solid  and  sublime 
As  Lacon  says  in  regard  to  plagiarism  from  Shakspeare,  it 
would  be  "  like  stealing  an  anchor,"  (and  a  gold  anchor,  too,) 
to  think  of  carrying  away  such  thoughts  and  images  as  these 
of  the  German  poetess,  without  letting  the  theft  be  known.  I 


400  NOTES. 

am  not  charging-  Coleridge  with  theft ;  on  the  contrary,  1  am 
saying  that  the  German  piece  in  question  is  too  weighty  to 
admit  of  being  stolen.  How  could  such  sentiments  have  been 
taken  without  the  thoughts,  and  how  the  thoughts  without 
the  words  ? 


THE  END. 


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